Another Hero: Season Three
by rainysfeverdreams
Summary: A Doyle-centric retelling of AtS Season Three. Part of my "Another Hero" series, which includes a prequel and the previous two seasons.
1. Heartthrob, Part 1

**TITLE: ANOTHER HERO: Season Three**

 **SUMMARY:** A Doyle-centric retelling of the third season of Angel. This is part of my **Another Hero** series, which begins with an alternate version of "Hero," and is followed by **Another Hero: Seasons One and Two**. It is strongly recommended that you read the series in order.

 **A/N:** Here it is, guys! The beginning of a new season. I'm a little more nervous about posting this one than I have in the past, because I haven't actually finished the entire season yet. Normally, I like to be done (or almost done) before I start posting, but I've been so busy lately that I feel like I need some motivation to get this season done! Nothing like lighting a fire under my bum to serve as motivation, right? Anyway, I vow that I will finish this, as I finish all my stories, so you have no reason to worry. I just can't guarantee the pace of my new chapters will be quite as rapid as it's been in the past. I will certainly do my best, though!

As with the previous seasons, chapters are labeled by the corresponding episode titles. Season three, like season two before it, is heavily serialized and each chapter/episode connects to the next in terms of plot and character development, therefore, skipping episodes is not advisable.

Really hope you enjoy this next part of the journey!

* * *

 **1\. Heartthrob, Part I**

Cordelia stood in the center of the dismally lit, concrete basement and took a wild swing at the spikey demon standing two feet in front of her. Her spry opponent easily dodged her punch, and then danced forward, back into her space, grinning widely. "That was a good one—ya almost got me that time."

She dropped her fists and blew at the stray hairs that had escaped from her short ponytail. "If by 'almost' you mean 'not even close.'" She grumbled. "You can tell by the fact that my knuckles don't look like they've been through a cheese-grater… can we just skip ahead to the weapons already?"

Doyle chuckled as he morphed from his demon visage into his more affable human face, featuring those twinkling eyes of his, which still managed to look bright even in the dull fluorescent light of the Hyperion's basement-turned-training room. "I know you're real eager to be combat-ready, Princess. But you've gotta learn the basics before ya can move on to the hard stuff. Besides I've seen what you've done with that axe, and I'm not looking to require stitches after these training sessions o' ours."

"Ooooh, lemme try without the spikes this time." She urged excitedly, lifting her fists once again and winding them up for a blow. "I bet I could hit you."

His expression told her that he didn't disagree and he held up his hands in defense. "Hey, what's training for you is therapy for me. Doctor's orders, remember?" He tapped his index finger against his right temple, reminding her how crucial the demon-therapy was for his brain activity.

Cordelia let out a sharp guffaw of objection, not remotely impressed with his flimsy argument. "Here we go again… _You're_ the one who insists it's only for fighting. There are _so_ many other things you could do in demon face, Doyle. Some, of which, I've begged you to do. Now, unless you'd like me to go through that entire list, I think you should stop stalling and lemme take a swing!"

"Okay, okay, I'll fight without the spikes, but ah... why don't we move away from the hitting for now? It's making ya a little too bloodthirsty for my liking." He hedged, carefully keeping his human-faced distance as he circled the mats to stand behind her. Her body language changed as she accepted his new suggestion and he took it as a sign to move closer—so close that Cordelia could feel his breath hitting the sensitive skin on the back of her exposed neck. Doyle draped his arms around her body, pinning her arms securely to her sides. "Now… if some beastie gets the jump on ya, you'll need to know how to turn the tables."

"What do you suggest—should I flip you over or something slayer-esque like that?" She asked, trying, and failing, to do anything of the sort, since she couldn't even move her arms, much less anything else. "Okay, no-go on the slayer-moves. Maybe if I wriggle…?"

She squirmed a bit within his grasp, causing friction between them, but not finding herself any freer than she'd first started. Behind her, Doyle cleared his throat.

"I think ya should stop with the wriggling." He suggested, his voice becoming audibly deeper. He repositioned his hands, making it even more pointless for her to struggle. As his fingers brushed against some of the more sensitive parts of her anatomy, Cordelia found herself inhaling sharply.

"Um, nice try, buddy, but I don't think a demon's gonna put its hands there." She protested, trying to focus on the life-saving training rather than her rapidly accelerating pulse and spike in room temperature.

"I beg to differ, darlin'." Doyle said with a suggestive chuckle. "I have it on good authority that a demon would put its hands there—seeing how I am one."

"Whatever." She sniffed, trying to sound breezy, although she felt anything but. "Let's just get on with it—what should I do to get out of the clutches of my pervy demon attacker, huh?"

Doyle shifted again, so his mouth was very close to her ear as he calmly gave his instructions. "Ya don't have the physical strength to overtake me, but ya can use my own strength against me." He abruptly let go of her and stepped back a few paces and she instantly missed the feeling of his arms around her—the drawback of training with Doyle was that he made her feel the opposite things she should feel. She should be fighting off her pretend-attacker, and instead, she was wishing he'd hold her that much closer. Maybe she should start picking fights with him before their training sessions…

Then again, fighting sometimes made her want him all the more.

"Let's try that again, yeah?" He suggested, his voice floating to her ears from somewhere behind her. "Only this time, instead of standing there all rigid-like, get some leverage, crouch forward and let me overdo it. The moment I'm off balance, get a jab in with your elbow."

"I can do that." She agreed, signaling for him to begin the maneuver. A long moment went by and she still stood there, crouching somewhat unnaturally, waiting for him to attack. She reverted to her original casual posture, shoulders slumping with annoyance. "Any day n—"

Just as she started complaining, he lurched forward, once again grabbing her from behind as a would-be attacker might attempt to do. She did her best to get back into position, crouching the way he'd recommended, but instead of executing a defensive jab, she found herself off-balance and they both went crashing to the floor in a heap, with him landing solidly on top. Her head bounced off the mat—the only thing keeping Cordelia from being injured, was the soft padding beneath her as well as Doyle mostly catching himself, preventing their heads from bumping together.

"Not exactly what I had in mind." He said, his face hovering inches above hers as he used his arms to brace himself in an upward push-up position. They were both breathing heavily from the exertion.

"But, look, I got you on the ground." She joked from underneath him. "It's a pretty good start."

"We may need to work on your technique, darlin'." He said good-naturedly, holding his position. "The goal is to teach ya how to crack a demon's skull open, not your own."

"Is that right?" She panted up at him, noting that the energy had continued to shift into heated territory, as oft was the case when they were in close quarters. His weight against her body increased slightly as he let some of the tension out of his biceps. "Pretty sure your goal was to cop a feel."

"I might have more than one goal." He amended with a roguish grin, as his hands slid into position over her wrists, pinning her to the mat below him. Clearly, he planned to take advantage of his upper-hand. "One of 'em's easier to accomplish than the other."

"That's what you think." She demured, faux-denying his advances with her mouth, even as her body fully accepted them. She used her legs to lock him in place, even as she feebly struggled against his grasp.

Meanwhile, he leaned down so that his lips were only a micrometer from her own—teasing her. He was really good at teasing, which was perhaps, why they were such a perfect match. Pushing each other's buttons was a mutual favorite pastime and they were equally skilled in that department.

"What's say we get ya outta these workout clothes?" He suggested in a throaty whisper.

"Less talking, more kissing." She demanded, capturing his lips, effectively putting an end to their training session. He kissed her back feverishly, and willingly relinquished control, allowing her to roll him over onto his back and climb on top as pieces of clothing were swiftly removed and tossed aside.

Maybe next time she'd learn something new. Today she'd just stick to practicing the moves she already knew by heart.

* * *

Wesley stood at the front counter in the Hyperion lobby, sipping from his coffee mug as he flipped through a fascinating article on Wraither demons in the _American Journal of Demonology_. Reversing back to the front page, he was unsurprised to find that it had been written by none other than Harriet Doyle. She was an extremely intelligent, well-written woman, and had exceptional knowledge of demon culture and habitats. Wesley could hardly remember reading a single article she'd written that didn't thoroughly impress him. And he'd read _a lot_ of her articles.

No, it wasn't at all surprising that Wesley would be fascinated with her work. What he did, however, still have trouble reconciling, was the fact that this rather exceptional demon scholar had once been married to his somewhat less scholarly half-demon coworker, who up until very recently, had seemed to loathe everything about being a demon. Harriet hardly seemed his type.

In fact, in Wesley's opinion, the former Mrs. Doyle seemed much more his own type of woman than Doyle's. The type of woman who would enjoy perusing through ancient demonic texts on a quiet Sunday morning or discussing the results of a demon autopsy over dinner. There weren't many other individuals, female or otherwise, who found these subjects nearly as scintillating as Wesley, but Harriet Doyle was apparently one of them. The heart did work in mysterious ways… After all, Wesley had technically—and disastrously—dated Cordelia once upon a time.

Amazing that two such diametric opposites, could share such a similar taste in women.

Scanning down the page to read Harriet's bio, Wesley honed in on the final line. _She currently lives in Los Angeles with her partner, Michael Tiptin, PhD._ Wesley sighed with disappointment. That was probably for the best—getting involved with the ex-lover of a coworker and friend—that could be quite awkward. If Wesley intended to dip his toes back into the dating pool one of these days—and he most certainly did intend to dip—he was better off steering clear of any bizarre love triangle shenanigans. He was much too old for that rubbish.

Not that he had time for a social life, which certainly made entering the dating scene a challenge.

"Those Mullet demons are toast!" Gunn announced as he blew through the front doors of the hotel and sauntered toward the reception counter, tossing his homemade axe onto one of the red couches that adorned the front of the lobby.

"I assume you are referring to the Mu-rite demons we killed yesterday." Wesley corrected, briefly looking up from the article he'd been poring over.

"Yeah, but didn't those fin things kinda look like mullets?" Gunn reasoned, gesturing to the back of his head in illustration. "Anyway. I did some recon, like you asked. No hope of resurrecting what's left of those things. Sludge city."

"Good." Wesley said approvingly, flipping past Harriet's article to see what else the journal contained. "I suspected as much, but you can never be too careful with these demon worshipping cults."

"Sad they don't got nothing better to do than obsess over demons. Sad we don't got nothing better to do either, but at least we get paid for it sometimes." Gunn pounded his fist against the top of the counter in an affirming motion and then moved toward the doorway leading down to the training room. "I was hyped for some action. Think I'll go a few rounds with the punching bag to burn it off."

"I wouldn't go down there just now, if I were you." Wesley commented offhandedly, taking another sip from his coffee mug.

Gunn halted in front of the closed door, confused for a moment and then catching the sound of a muffled moan emanating from the depths of the basement; he rumpled his face in disgust and turned back to his boss with a groan of objection. "For real?" He asked, hitching a thumb toward the door in disbelief. "Ain't any place sacred?"

"Perhaps, I should consider banning fraternization in the workplace." Wesley remarked dryly.

"Doesn't sound like they're fraternizing." Gunn responded. "Sounds like they're—"

"Yes, thank you, Gunn." Wesley interrupted his coworker before he could put words to something Wesley would prefer to only speak about in euphemisms. "In the very least, I should probably increase the cleaning supply budget."

Sauntering back over to the reception counter, Gunn took a little hop and managed to land successfully in a seated position upon the high surface. "Ah, I can't even be mad." He said, waving his hand dismissively. "Jealous maybe. Let's face it, English. It's been a while since either of us got up close and personal with a non-demon-type, know what I'm saying?"

"Doyle is a demon." Wesley reminded Gunn, turning another page in his magazine.

"Yeah, and Cordelia's not." Gunn clarified. "Didn't say I was jealous of _her_. Sign me up for bitter and alone before I'm desperate enough to start banging a demon."

"You know, you could, dare I say, 'bang' a demon without ever knowing. Doyle isn't the only one who can pass for human. Take Wraithers, for instance…" Wesley's exposition trailed off as he saw the glazed over look in Gunn's eye. Frowning to himself, he closed the journal in front of him and gave Gunn a pointed look.

"Don't stop spouting the useless info on my account." Gunn encouraged with a knowing smirk.

"Yes, well… _ahem_." Wesley lifted his magazine and shoved it under his arm, lifting his mug off the counter and preparing to disappear into his office, where he could enjoy his 'useless demon info' in peace. "I was simply going to note, that certain demonic species—Brachens, most notably—are really not that dissimilar to humans. On a biological level, you'd hardly know the difference."

"Aside from the face full of spikes and the ability to break their necks without dying." Gunn replied. "I know D looks human most of the time, but when he goes into combat mode he's like a super-porcupine on steroids."

"Yes, I suppose Doyle is a much more formidable combatant now that he readily uses his demon visage on the battlefield." Wesley agreed. "It has been a great benefit to us this summer with Angel away."

"You can say that again."

It was Cordelia's voice that permeated their conversation bubble, causing both Wesley and Gunn to snap their heads in her direction. She stood in the doorway of the basement, using a towel to mop the sweat from her upper chest and neck. "Now if only he'd allow _me_ to benefit by using that demon in the bedroom—I think that would really prove how much he's grown as a half-person, don't you think?"

As she stepped out of the doorway, Doyle appeared in her wake, wearing a rather unenthusiastic expression. He usually found her blunt remarks humorous, but clearly this wasn't an aspect of their sex life he wished to share with the group.

"Basement's all yours, Gunn!" She chirped, as she skipped off toward the main staircase, presumably to shower in one of the many rooms above.

"For the record, I feel I've already grown enough." Doyle griped as he slowly followed in her footsteps. "And I'd appreciate if ya didn't encourage her on that particular point, yeah?"

Wesley and Gunn watched them go and after an awkward beat of silence, Gunn turned to his boss. "You know, maybe you could just put a ban on _talking_ about fraternization in the workplace."

"Done." Wesley agreed with a curt nod.

* * *

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

Doyle and Cordelia stood patiently outside the second floor room currently belonging to Winifred Burkle, their rarely seen hotel guest. From behind the door they could hear some scuffling sounds and a hurried, muffled reply. "Hi, there. I-I'm fine, thanks. Doing real good! Have a nice day."

"We brought tacos." Doyle announced through the wooden surface in front of him. "The crispy kind."

"Extra hot sauce, too." Cordelia added, rattling the numerous plastic packets contained inside the small paper bag in her hand.

Some more scuffling could be heard from inside the room, adding to the mental image of Fred being holed up like some tiny, feral creature, not yet accustomed to the luxuries a first world country could provide.

Mostly because that was exactly what she was.

The door creaked open, and Fred's small face peeped through the crack, her glasses slipping awkwardly down the bridge of her nose as she giggled nervously. "You didn't have to go through so much trouble, your majesties—I would've been fine with minimal hot sauce. Or none. There was no hot sauce in Pylea—or tacos. Or polite conversation of any kind, really—"

"Fred." Doyle replied in a tone he'd once reserved for rambunctious schoolchildren. "What have I told ya 'bout the majesty thing?"

"Not to call you that—of course, silly me. I've written that down a few dozen times, but I'll go write it again for good measure." She squeaked nervously, not opening the door any further than the small crack. Even so, her high level of anxiety poured out into the corridor.

"Sounds like you're gonna run out of wall space real soon." Cordelia remarked, taking the bag of tacos from Doyle and shoving it unceremoniously at the teeny creature behind the door; the smaller bag of extra hot sauce followed. "Can we get you anything else? A refreshing beverage? Or, perhaps, a dry-erase board?"

Fred snorted with nervous laughter as she accepted the bags and immediately halved the space between the door and its frame, intending to shut it entirely as soon as she could dismiss her visitors. "You've already done so much. I won't be troubling you any further, your maj—um, Cordelia. And Doyle. Friends of Angel, the man who saved me from the demons. Um, well, he's a demon, too, I suppose, but not the evil kind—did he happen to mention when he'd be back? Not that I think he'd want to see me; it's just the sort of thing that people might ask when discussing a mutual acquaintance."

"Doyle, you wanna field this question today?" Cordelia wondered, with a disinterested arch of her brow.

Doyle could have recited the lines by heart, considering he said them nearly every day. "Angel needs a little more time, love. But when he gets back, I'm sure he'll come by to see ya." He placed a hand on Cordelia's shoulder, signaling that the two of them should retreat from Fred's doorway. "Enjoy the tacos."

"Okay! Bye!" She squeaked, slamming the door shut before the words were even out of her mouth.

Cordelia exchanged a beleaguered look with Doyle as they both turned away from the closed door and headed down the second floor hallway toward the main staircase that would lead them down into the lobby. "Well, she's not getting any less crazy, is she?" Cordelia commented. "It's been three whole months and that girl is still very much interrupted."

"She spent five years in a hell dimension where they treated her like an animal." Doyle reminded his girlfriend as they approached the grand staircase and began descending side-by-side. "It'll take more than three months of eating tacos to snap her outta this."

"So, what do y'think? Six months of taco-eating?" Cordelia sassed. "How are we supposed to show her how non-scary the outside world is, if she doesn't actually see it?"

"Cable?" Doyle suggested.

"This isn't a joke, Doyle." Cordelia lightly chastised. "Living a life inside a cramped hotel room isn't really living, it's existing. We might as well have left her back in Pylea—at least she used to get some sun."

"It'll be different when Angel gets back." Doyle surmised as they hit the bottom landing and continued across the expansive lobby toward the front reception area. "They really bonded over there in Pylea—she feels safe with him. I'm sure he'll be able to convince her to get out and, y'know, start really living."

"Oh, right, because that's something Angel's always exceled at—getting out and really living." Cordelia snarked. "Not to sound like crazy-pants up there, but when _is_ he coming back? He's been gone the entire summer. And, not for anything, but no matter how much time he spends meditating with a bunch of monks, Buffy will still be—"

"Cordy." Doyle cut her off as he sensed the presence of a vampire in the lobby—a very specific vampire. "He's back."

Angel stepped out of Wesley's office, with his hands shoved in his pockets and a small introductory grin playing across his lips. "Hey, guys." He said easily.

Cordelia bounced excitedly up and down beside Doyle and then launched herself around the reception counter to give Angel a warm embrace. "You're back!" She enthused. "And just in the nick of time—honestly, this place had seriously been lacking in the doom and gloom department with you gone."

"I missed you, too." Angel said with a chuckle, hugging Cordelia back and then stepping out of her grip and into that of his best friend who was right on her heels.

"How was the retreat, man?" Doyle asked jovially, giving Angel an added pat on the back and then stepping back to casually lean his elbows against the front counter. "Musta had your fill o' peace and quiet, yeah?"

"The monks turned out to be demons." Angel deadpanned. "Guess I should've listened to you."

"Vegas." Doyle agreed with a laugh. "Always the cure for what ails ya."

"Assuming what ails you is a wallet full of cash." Cordelia piped up, giving Doyle a begrudging look. "Let's get back to the catching up, shall we? Everything here is pretty much exactly the way you left it, except for the walls in Fred's apartment, which are covered in gibberish."

That statement made the smile on Angel's face fade. "She hasn't really adjusted yet, I take it?"

"Well, that depends on what you mean by adjusted." Cordelia replied. "She seems to have really taken a shine to that room of hers. And she can put away tacos like nobody's business. But, she's not real big on the sunshine, fresh air or mental health."

"Yeah, ah… we were actually just discussing some of our concerns when it comes to our rather reclusive houseguest." Doyle elaborated. "I'm hoping you can go sweet talk the little mouse outta her hole."

"And, maybe establish that the walls down here are not for writing." Cordelia added. "We've been working hard all summer, but that doesn't mean we have money to spare on redecorating."

"I'll be sure to mention it." Angel replied with a faint chuckle as he began to move off in the direction of the staircase.

Cordelia stared after him with a curious frown, waiting until he was well out of supernatural earshot before speaking. "On a brood scale of 1 to 10—five being Angel's normal, every day level of broodiness—I'd say he might be somewhere in the ten and a half zone."

Pushing away from the counter and sauntering toward the half-full coffee pot to inspect the contents, Doyle furrowed his brow with amused skepticism. "We talked to him for five minutes."

"A lot can happen in five minutes, Doyle." Cordelia debated, following in the few footsteps he'd taken and hovering by his side. "You could cook five bags of minute rice, for instance."

"He seemed fine." Doyle assured her, unconcerned by her alarmism.

She glanced over to the now-empty staircase with dismay. "I don't get it—I thought for sure he'd bring the morbid gloom right back with him. I think this only shows how _not_ fine he is."

"Ya have a helluva logic there, darlin'." Doyle said with a chuckle, selecting a mug from the pile and deciding to take his chances with the dark liquid that had been sitting in the pot since earlier that morning—it couldn't be any worse than the sludge he used to drink back when they first started their business.

"Are you saying you disagree with me?" She inquired, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Y'think I'm fool enough to say yes to that question?" Doyle replied easily as he poured. "I've been in this relationship long enough to avoid those kinda obvious traps."

"Buffy's dead." Cordelia reminded Doyle in her very best _duh_ voice. "There's no way Angel's okay. I don't care how many demon monks he got to wail on this summer."

"What if he really is okay?" Doyle countered, as he settled the coffee pot back in to its base. "Would there be something wrong with that?"

"No. Of course not." Cordelia conceded, a little taken aback by the question. "As long as he keeps doing his job, and avoids all forms of perfect happiness, there's no problem at all."

Doyle slammed down his coffee mug sharply, causing the coffee inside to splash out and spill all over the countertop. Cordelia jumped back, startled by his abrupt movement, but she knew by now that it wasn't a bout of clumsiness or a bad temperament that had caused Doyle's sudden action. She watched as his skin turned a deep shade of green and his face became peppered with thick midnight blue quills; he braced his demon hands against the side of the counter as a doozy of a vision hit him full force.

"Guys! Incoming!" Cordelia called to Wesley and Gunn who were in Wesley's office.

Instead of shouting or crying as he sometimes had in the past, Doyle made little more than a few grunting noises nowadays. His demon form took the brunt of the vision, allowing him to stay on his own two feet with minimal assistance from others. But despite the increased balance, endurance and strength, Cordelia knew the visions still caused him a great deal of pain on the inside. Therefore, she reached out to brace his upper arm, silently offering her support.

Their nearby co-workers were quick to assemble at Cordelia's side even before Doyle had regained control of himself and shook off his demon visage. "Wilson College." He gasped, blinking himself back to the physical reality in front of his eyes. "Bonner Hall. Room 918. Bunch o' vamps about to crash a party and have their fill o' the guests."

"Let's move out." Wesley declared, grabbing a set of keys off a hook on the wall, barking out instructions to his colleagues, which were quickly followed. "Gunn, the weapons. Cordelia, the first aid kit. I'll bring the car around—Doyle, let Angel know we have a new case. I think it best that he get right back in the saddle, wouldn't you agree?"

"Can't picture Angel on a horse." Doyle replied, tilting his head to the side. "Okay, now I can… and, gotta say, it works _way_ better than tights and a cape." Shaking off the final remnants of his vision-clouded head, Doyle moved toward the staircase to inform Angel of his latest vision and find out if the vampire was game to stop it.


	2. Heartthrob, Part 2

**2\. Heartthrob, Part II**

The heart-shaped locket dangled from Angel's hand, slowly spinning as it swung from side to side. He sat sullenly at the bottom of Hyperion's main staircase with Wesley, Gunn, Doyle and Cordelia gathered around; all eyes were fixated on the curious object as if it was a hypnotist's watch.

The evening had been disheartening. They were late to the party, so to speak, aside from a few who hadn't been completely drained, they were unable to save the majority of young people who'd been unfortunate enough to attend. They had, however, managed to intercept and destroy the vampires responsible for the massacre, as well as save two students who had been dragged off for later snacking.

The locket dangling from Angel's fingertips had belonged to the vicious blonde who'd led the group, and as it turned out, he recognized it.

And her.

"Her name was Lisbeth." Angel said, as he carefully opened the locket, revealing two aged photographs within. "The guy is James, her lover—or at least, he was two hundred years ago when Darla and I knew them. It was Marseille, mid-1700s…"

"The DeLeon murder. It led to a witch hunt." Wesley mumbled aloud, eliciting confused looks from the others and a slight nod of affirmation from Angel. " _Ahem_ … so to speak."

"That's right." Angel conceded. "We killed the Count. Sacked his place, had our fun. It wouldn't have been more than a blip in those history books if James and Lisbeth hadn't decided to burn his place to the ground—it brought a lot of unwanted attention."

"I'm guessing the attention was of the angry mob variety, yeah?" Doyle speculated, leaning his weight against the banister at the bottom of the grand staircase.

Angel nodded solemnly. "An angry mob led by the greatest vampire hunter of the eighteenth century. Went by the name of Holtz. Chased Darla and I from one end of Europe to the other…" He trailed off as he became lost in a sea of old thoughts. Finally, he dropped the locket from one hand to the other and closed his fist around it. "But that's another story."

"I don't know about y'all, but I'd rather hear more about Van Helsing than Romeo and Juliet." Gunn remarked.

Cordelia, who was seated beside Angel on the bottom step, reached up and idly toyed with the delicate glass heart that hung from her own neck—it symbolized the love of her life, and would continue to do so long after her—hopefully natural—life was over. Two centuries from now, it would most likely be resting among her bones somewhere in the ground. It was a dark thought, and yet oddly comforting at the same time.

As her personal thoughts veered back to the matter at hand, she did what she did best. Point out the obvious. "This chick was still wearing lover-boy's necklace. Nothing says forever-love like dedication to a tarnished piece of vintage jewelry. Do you think he's still alive—er, undead?"

"We should probably assume James is still in the picture." Angel decided. "And he's not gonna be happy when he finds out what happened. He'll be out for blood."

"Eye for an eye." Doyle added quietly. "Or, in this case, heart for a heart, yeah?"

"Doyle's right." Wesley spoke up, catching Doyle's veiled meaning. "If James is still around and seeking revenge—he'll want to do more than just kill you, Angel. He'll want to take something away from you. Something you care about. _Someone_."

Cordelia's eyes reflexively darted to Doyle's placid face. While Wesley had clearly been referring to any one of Angel's friends, she knew Doyle was the obvious choice for the 'someone' who Angel loved the most now that Buffy was no longer in the picture. That wasn't to say that they weren't all loved by Angel in some way, and therefore, in the proverbial line of fire, but Doyle stood out as the best friend—the brother. The man who'd given his life to save Angel's in another timeline, and would probably do it again in this one given the right circumstances.

Cordelia just didn't want _this_ to be those circumstances.

"If this James dude is around and looking for trouble, he probably ain't doing it quietly." Gunn guessed. "D and I can hit up our sources."

Angel was surprised by that statement. He looked up, first at Doyle and then over to Cordelia, and finally back to Doyle. "You have sources again?" He asked uncertainly.

"I always had sources." Doyle corrected. "I just fell outta touch on account of having to avoid 'em, that's all."

"He just talks to Merl." Cordelia clarified. She pushed herself up off the bottom step and smoothed the wrinkles from the front of her jeans.

"Angel, until we get a beat on this James fellow, I think it best you stay out of sight." Wesley suggested, as the rest of the group began to disburse. "There's a good chance he's already looking for you."

"I would." Angel muttered in reply, lifting his fist and letting the locket fall back into a dangling position.

Cordelia had been trudging away when Wesley, of course, outpaced her on the way to the reception area. He wasn't much of a trudger, that one. And Gunn was already halfway out the front door, eager to hit the streets. Cordelia, on the other hand, would undoubtedly be spending the rest of the afternoon cooped up with the broody-but-not-broody-enough vampire, which is why she found herself pausing and whirling back around—where she crashed directly into Doyle.

He caught her arms to stabilize her and gazed down at her sternly. "Oh, no ya don't, Princess." He warned. "Ya needa fight the urge for a pep talk."

"Why? Because he's _fine_?" She gritted back at him in a loud whisper. "You may think he doesn't need to open up, but I do."

Doyle held up his hands, pleading with her to be reasonable. "It's just… not exactly the right time, yeah?"

Peering around Doyle, Cordelia could see that Angel's gaze was once again affixed to the two-hundred year old locket, contemplating an ocean of thought.

"Let me guess—the right time is later tonight on the roof with a bottle of Scotch." She huffed.

"Well… yeah, probably." Doyle admitted with a shrug. "That way he does at least thirty percent of the talking."

Cordelia swung an arm in Angel's direction. "Can't you see what's going on here, Doyle? He's compartmentalizing—something I happen to have a lot of experience with. I'm telling you, underneath that annoyingly aloof exterior is a deep well of pain just waiting to be shared. What he needs is someone to soothe that pain with something other than a bottle—and I happen to be a _very_ soothing person!"

"I know ya _can_ be." Doyle allowed, rubbing at his right eyebrow. "But, as you may have noticed, Angel's not big with the sharing."

"I went to therapy." She declared, side-stepping Doyle, and making a beeline back in Angel's direction. "Watch and learn."

She heard a muffled "uh huh" emanate from her boyfriend as he, too, took an about-face and dutifully followed in her footsteps. She couldn't wait to show Doyle how wrong he was. She'd dealt with her own feelings of grief and loss enough to know what needed to happen here. And, while sensitivity wasn't her most defining quality, it's not like she was incapable of showing it.

Finding Angel exactly where she'd left him on the bottom step of the staircase, Cordelia plopped herself down beside him and flashed him an encouraging smile. Meanwhile, Doyle stopped a foot away, lightly resting one hand against the edge of the banister and placing the other hand on his hip.

Angel was visibly confused by their return. "What?"

"It's not working, Angel." She stated plainly. A muted groan from Doyle, told her he wasn't a fan of this particular approach, but she ignored him, focusing on her objective. "We're trying to do a job here and what affects you affects all of us."

"I know." Angel said uncertainly, his eyes briefly darting over to Doyle's before traveling back to Cordelia's. He fidgeted with the locket in his hand, opening and closing it with a little click.

"Listen, we all know you're highly skilled in the art of brooding, and that you prefer it that way. But, you shouldn't suffer more than you have to—none of us wanna see that." She went on, reaching out to put a comforting hand on Angel's shoulder, using the most sympathetic expression she could muster. "I don't think you should blame yourself, or feel guilty for her death."

"I don't." Angel said simply.

"Oh. Good." She said, surprised by his unassuming response. She raised a questioning brow in Doyle's direction, but he merely shrugged in response, leaving her to her own devices. She patted Angel's shoulder and then blurted. "Are you sure?"

Over Angel's shoulder, Cordelia could see that Doyle had rolled his eyes heavenward. But, Angel didn't look nearly as bothered by the question. He answered in his typical, nonchalant way, as if he was talking about the weather. "I didn't even know who she was when I killed her."

This time it was Cordelia's eyes that rolled upward in frustration. "Not her!" She corrected with mild exasperation. "Angel…"

"Oh. You wanna talk about…" Angel caught her meaning, and cleared his throat uncomfortably as a result. He closed his fist around the locket once again, this time a little tighter than before.

The air shifted as a layer of palpable tension settled in. Cordelia half-expected Doyle to intervene at this point, but he had thrown his head back and was intently focused on the chandelier that dangled above their heads rather than the two figures hunched at the bottom of the stairs.

Fine, she didn't need his help anyway. This is what she excelled at. Telling others the truth, even when they didn't want to hear it. This was her defining trait, and she intended to wield it now for Angel's benefit.

"She was the love of your life, and she died." Cordelia said softly, her voice catching just a little. As she uttered the weighty words aloud, she found herself empathizing with Angel more than she thought she would. All she had to do was remember that other timeline—the one where Doyle had died before she'd ever had the chance to love him. It was a world she couldn't imagine living in; and one she never wanted to. That thought alone was enough to make her throat scratchy and her eyes burn. "I get it, Angel. More than you know. You wanted to be with her through it all. To help her, to fight by her side—and now that she's gone, you probably wish you could join her… But, you can't give up. She wouldn't want you to. And we need you here with us—the good fight needs you."

Neither Angel nor Doyle said a single word in reply, and suddenly Cordelia felt the heaviness of this one-sided conversation. It occurred to her that it was revealing far more about her state of mind than Angel's. And she finally understood why Doyle had advised her not to push.

Not for Angel's sake, but for her own.

"Well… I guess we're done here." She let out a resigned sigh before pushing herself up off the staircase. Tossing one final pout down at Angel, she saw nothing but a mask of unreadable stone. "I can't force you to talk about it. But, if you change your mind, I'll just be over there. Sitting at my desk… Possibly with Scotch."

She shot Doyle a biting glance, warning him not to say a word, before beginning her trek across the lobby. She just assumed he and Angel shared some type of silent communication behind her back. A delayed moment later Doyle fell into step beside her, slipping a reassuring arm around her shoulders.

"Whoever said silence speaks a thousand words, was totally full of it." She grumbled.

"I think ya tried to do a nice thing there, Princess." He assured her, squeezing her shoulders warmly. "Angel might not o' opened up just then—but I sure wanted to."

"Yeah?" She asked with the barest hint of a smile, suddenly not feeling so bad about letting her own feelings show. "Wanna open up over dinner tonight?"

"You can count on it." He said, planting a soft kiss on her temple.

* * *

Doyle whistled to himself as he pushed through the front doors of the Hyperion lobby and caught an eyeful of two less-than-happy faces. He slowed his steps as he approached the frosty weather conditions surrounding the reception area, noting that Cordelia was executing her typical faux-busy routine rather than conversing with the pouting individual nearby. Doyle was accustomed to being said individual, but, thankfully, that wasn't the case today.

It was actually a credit to the gang's humanizing influence that Angel actually looked quite effected by Cordelia's ire, rather than maintaining his usual nonchalant demeanor. As the vampire shuffled around the front counter, he anxiously peered over his shoulder, as if expecting to be greeted with the pointy end of Cordelia's sharpened pencil. In reality, it was her much sharper tongue he had to worry about.

"Y'know, if I walked into any other room with this type o' climate I'd ask 'who died,' but 'round here I'm afraid o' the answer." Doyle remarked, as he took up the space beside Angel, casually leaning an elbow against the countertop.

"You know who died." Cordelia sniffed in return. "We _all_ know, and yet _no one_ wants to talk about it."

"So… we're still on that, yeah?" Doyle's brows moved up and down as he shared a sympathetic gaze with Angel, who had undoubtedly spent most of the morning listening to various iterations of Cordelia's failed pep talk.

"It certainly wasn't my idea to sit around in uncomfortable silence all morning." Cordelia noted tersely. "I mean, he doesn't even breathe. I might as well be sitting here with a corpse."

"I am a corpse." Angel supplied the punch line flatly.

"Only technically." Cordelia pooh poohed with a waved of her pencil. "And it doesn't mean you have to act like one. Geez!"

Angel's face scrunched up with displeasure as if he'd just heard a particularly sour note, but instead of continuing down the path of fruitless banter, he turned his pleading gaze toward his best friend and silently begged for assistance.

"Ah… good thing I'm here to do away with that pesky silence." Doyle offered good-naturedly, tossing Angel a conspiratorial wink. "Turns out I was able to squeeze a few useful tidbits outta ol' Merl."

"Handing him a wad of cash doesn't seem all that squeezy to me." Cordelia critiqued, finally placing her pencil down and looking up from her mound of paperwork. Doyle frowned in reply and she flashed him an overly sweet grin. "So, what'd the little rat have to say this time?"

"That thing we were hoping wasn't true… well, it is." Doyle announced grimly, with a slight head bob in Angel's direction. "Your boy James is in town. He knows all 'bout his lady love's untimely demise—and who to blame for it. I'm thinking he's fangs deep in revenge fantasies right about now."

Angel stayed quiet for a beat as he absorbed Doyle's words. "You should warn the others."

"Already done." Doyle confirmed, patting the mobile phone in his jacket pocket, which he'd managed to keep in working condition for several weeks now. "I let 'em know they shouldn't be advertising their associations with the vampire formerly known as Angelus anytime soon."

"You two should leave here and do the same." Angel continued. "It's too easy for him to find this place."

"That's crazy, man." Doyle rebutted.

"Not so crazy." Cordelia pointed out, swiveling idly in her desk chair. "We do advertise."

"More reason we should stay, yeah?" Doyle countered. "Loverboy's definitely coming here. Someone's gotta have your back, Angel, man."

Angel shook his head vehemently, pointing a declarative finger at the front door. "I don't want you—or Cordelia—in the middle of this."

"For once, I'm not feeling the need to argue here." Cordelia said agreeably, rising from her desk chair and reaching underneath her desk to fetch her purse. "In fact, maybe it'll be a good thing—Angel will have someone he can really open up to. I mean, who'd understand the whole dead girlfriend thing better than the guy whose girlfriend he just killed?"

Neither Doyle or Angel batted an eyelash at Cordelia's insensitive comment, able to read between her obviously sarcastic lines. Besides, Angel was far too concerned with his friends' wellbeing than any verbal jabs at his expense. "You'll be more help to me if you're out there tracking him down—."

The basement door burst open as if on cue, causing all three occupants of the reception area to involuntarily jump and whip their heads toward the manic figure who suddenly appeared. "Why'd you do it?!" Shouted the dark-haired man, who was clearly the aforementioned James.

"Good to know our advertising works." Cordelia muttered darkly, taking in the sight of the terrifying figure.

He didn't need to wear his game face to be threatening; he was plenty threatening just as he was. All bulging veins and muscles. James lumbered forward, his hateful eyes locking onto Angel's almost immediately, as if the others didn't even exist. "Because I had something you could never have?!"

Cordelia was closest to their intruder, and therefore, the first in the line of fire. She instinctively kicked her rolling desk chair into the vampire's path and lurched backwards, knocking all of the carefully sorted paperwork off her desk and scattering it on the floor behind her. Unfortunately, her valiant efforts did little to slow the enraged demon from continuing forward. The creature's wrathful eyes did, however, dart in her direction, making her the most prominent target.

Everything was happening so fast. Both Angel and Doyle were in motion, but Doyle had started off closer to their opponent ensuring he'd get their first. In his rush to hurdle his body forward, he forgot to morph into his spikes. The result was Doyle ramming his ineffectual human physique into the adrenaline-fueled vampire, who batted him aside like a ragdoll.

The spike-free half-demon collapsed in a heap on top of the scattered paperwork that had already landed on the floor, his head thumping loudly against the wooden paneling on the side of Cordelia's desk. Although utterly clumsy in nature, Doyle's heroic gesture did succeed in the ultimate goal—Cordelia remained untouched. And with Angel launching his own counterattack, she'd remain that way.

Doyle rubbed at the rapidly forming lump on his head as he listened to the thuds and crashes of vampire-on-vampire action. By the time he stopped seeing stars, Angel and James were on the opposite side of the reception counter and out of his view. Cordelia slipped down off the top of the desk and crouched at Doyle's side, sparing a moment to wince at the visible knob on his head.

"This is one o' those times I wish we didn't advertise." He mumbled, as she assisted him in getting back to his feet.

"What happened to 'doctor's orders'?" She lightly chastised, gesturing to the smooth, pale skin of face. He nodded, and then obediently morphed into his face full of quills, hoping they'd take the edge off his newly acquired wound. His attention turned to the ongoing battle taking place in the center of the lobby—Angel swung and missed; James ducked and then countered with a roundhouse kick that landed hard and sent Angel reeling.

These two were a little too evenly matched for Doyle's liking, and one of them had pure, unadulterated rage on his side.

"Doyle!" Angel grunted, as he managed to deflect James' next blow. "Cordy—get outta here!" He shouted as James grabbed Angel by the lapels, spun him around and sent them both spinning toward the rear of the lobby, behind the main staircase.

Neither Doyle nor Cordelia moved from where they were crouched behind the reception area.

"We're not actually gonna run, are we?" Cordelia wondered, cringing as Angel took another hit.

"What do _you_ think?" Doyle countered rhetorically.

"That 'we' includes me." She said, challenging him to argue. "I was only trying to make a point before—in case that wasn't clear."

He shot her a beleaguered look, but didn't plan to argue the point. Instead he tossed a lingering look at the weapons cabinet, which wasn't too far out of their reach. He was about to suggest they make a break for it, when an unexpected sound interrupted his thoughts.

"Angel?" The distant voice that cut through the grunts and thwacks of the fight, was soft and familiar, floating down from above as if it were a feather.

"Oh no." Doyle groaned under his breath, a mere moment before the owner of the voice appeared in all her waiflike glory. "Not now."

"I thought I heard company." Fred announced, appearing on the second floor landing, utterly oblivious to the dangerous predicament happening just below her. "I came out of my room. Small steps—like you said." She noticed Doyle and Cordelia crouching by the front counter, and saw them both begin frantically waving her away. Misunderstanding their signals, she flashed them an overly bright smile and an enthusiastic wave. "Oh, hi guys! I-I thought I'd come down."

By now, Angel had actually managed to gain a slight upper hand in the fight, holding James in a rather precarious headlock. However, he chose to give up his position of dominance in order to step backward into Fred's view. "Go back to your room and stay there!" He gruffly shouted at their new arrival, pointing fiercely toward the recesses of the second floor hallway.

"Okay then!" Fred chirped, making an immediate about-face and hurrying right back the way she'd come.

"Well, she won't make that mistake again." Cordelia noted under her breath. "Lifetime supply of tacos it is."

Doyle shook off the momentary distraction and gently coaxed his girlfriend toward the weapons cabinet. "We'll work on that right after we keep Angel from getting deader than he already is—grab something that'll kill this guy, yeah?"

"Something pointy and wooden, coming right up." She agreed, sprinting toward the cabinet as Doyle sprung toward the action, bravely leaping onto the back of the vampire who was still brawling with his best friend.

James was taken only slightly off-guard, stumbling back and writhing against the strong-ish demon arms that were now wrapped around him piggyback style. He spun away from Angel, using Doyle as a shield from further blows.

"Dammit, Doyle—I told you to go!" Angel growled, his fists freezing in midair, so as not to connect with the spine of his ally, instead of the chest of his enemy.

"Cordy, that stake would be helpful right about now!" Doyle shouted as James spun them both around and crunched Doyle's body against the rear wall of the lobby. "Oomph!"

Angel was scowling with displeasure as he searched for the most convenient weapon he could get his hands on—which thankfully came in the form of a sharpened wooden stake that Cordelia tossed in the air. "Angel!" She warned a moment too late. Angel had already plucked it out of the air as if he'd known it was coming all along, and advanced toward the knotted jumble of James and Doyle, ready to use it as soon as James' chest was unobstructed.

"Let him go, Doyle." Angel ordered, his stake at the ready. "Get outta the way!"

"Trying!" Doyle grunted back, realizing he no longer had the option of doing any such thing—James was holding him securely in place, and preparing to use him as a battering ram against Angel. Shaking his head with resignation and knowing he wasn't going to like the results of his next decision, Doyle dropped his spikey protection, morphing into the skinny human who wasn't much of a weapon—and who also bruised rather easily.

Doyle was flung off one vampire and into the other—Angel caught Doyle with one arm and expertly swung him out of the way, bringing the stake down into James' exposed back, straight through to the other vampire's chest cavity, and deep into his non-beating heart. Angel then quickly turned away from his defeated enemy to check on the best friend he'd just tossed onto the hard tile floor.

Angel shook his head, as he noted Doyle's pained expression.

"Don't worry—these bruises go great with the bump from earlier." Doyle joked as Angel reached down to help his friend up.

"Next time, listen to me when I tell you to run." Angel chastised.

"Forget next time!" Cordelia squawked, rushing toward the vampire and half-demon, her eyes wide with terror and her index finger stretched toward the space behind them. "We're not done with this time, yet!"

Doyle was back on his feet, feeling the ache in his lower back, extending through much of his left leg. It was going to slow him down, unless he morphed back into the demon for a while. And judging by the still very alive James—who, in an unprecedented gesture, had ripped the stake from his chest—Doyle was going to need all the strength and speed he could get. "What the…?!"

Angel, although shocked, was still in possession of a fine set of vampire reflexes, which prompted him to rush forward and kick their non-dead undead foe straight through the glass wall at the rear of the lobby, and into the sun-drenched courtyard.

This had as much effect on James as the stake. Less, in fact, since all he had to do was stand up and brush himself off, rather than remove any sharp objects from his chest cavity.

"Where's the fire?!" Cordelia shrieked, digging her fingernails into Doyle's shoulder. "There's supposed to be fire!"

"Generally speaking…" Doyle said with a nervous gulp.

Angel whirled back around, turning toward his two friends and hustling them toward the basement door, which still stood half off its hinges from James' grand entrance. "Run!" He shouted, as he did the same.

This time, he got no argument from his loyal companions, who moved as quickly as their legs would carry them to the only possible exit point—the dark, labyrinthine depths of the sewer tunnels.


	3. Heartthrob, Part 3

**3\. Heartthrob, Part III**

The putrid smell of the sewer system still enveloped her, and Cordelia wished, for once, that she too was a vampire. Then she wouldn't be forced to breathe. Of course, being a vampire, or a half-demon like Doyle, also came with super-smell, something she was rather thankful she didn't have under the present circumstances.

As it was she was breathing quite loudly and deeply, and holding her aching sides—she was in great shape, but she was still only human, and she'd been forced to keep up with two demons as they raced through the dark tunnels. Either one of them would've gladly carried her, but that wasn't something she'd let happen unless their was no other choice. Truthfully, it didn't matter how fast or slow they were running—James would never stop chasing. And he didn't need to breathe or eat or stop for a bathroom break; he didn't seem to need anything at all, aside from exacting his revenge on Angel.

Cordelia had been relieved when they'd stopped running, even though she suspected it was primarily for her benefit, which didn't exactly make her feel good. She knew she was slowing them down; she was probably giving them away, too, with the stench of human blood rapidly running through her veins. Angel had used his own blood to try and throw James off their scent, attempting to divert him down a different tunnel, but vampires could always hone in on human blood over all else.

Angel quickly ushered them out of the main tunnel, down a narrow passageway that led into a small, dark utility room with a grated ceiling.

"So… how'd he… get to be… invincible?" She asked, resting her tired frame against the two solid supernatural bodies around her and working to gain control over her fatigued diaphragm.

"Let's not exaggerate." Angel whispered back.

Doyle stared at both of them, lifting a finger to his lips and widening his eyes as if to say they were both crazy for daring to speak aloud under the circumstances.

The three of them were squeezed into the confined space, standing so close together, there was barely room for modesty, much less any space for an echo. Which is why Cordelia ignored his objections—easy to do, since she was wedged between he and Angel, mostly facing the vampire. "Is there another ring of Amara?" She wondered. "I don't remember seeing any jewelry, but maybe he had it in his pocket."

"There was only one ring, darlin'." Doyle muttered quietly from behind her. She felt him shift, rubbing against her bottom. If they weren't half drenched in sewer water, it almost would've been sexy. On the run, the adrenaline flowing, hiding in close quarters… if it wasn't for Angel smooshed against her other side, this could've been an entirely different scenario. There was also the matter of the apparently unkillable vampire looking to murder them…

"Cufflinks maybe?" She continued, arching a questioning brow up at Angel. "Any other gaudy accessories in the Amara line?"

"No." Angel said simply. "This is… something else."

"Oh, it's something else alright." Cordelia bellyached. "I mean, if you had that ring, you'd at least have a shot to fight this guy, but _nooooo_ —Grumplevampskin had to smash it pieces!"

"Cordy." Doyle gently admonished, from behind her. "What's say we skip the trip down memory lane for now and be real quiet-like, yeah?"

A deep rumbling started to shake the walls around them and Cordelia yelped, "Earthquake!"

She rapidly flashed back to the image of her bones being discovered, with her precious glass heart in place. Only this time, those bones were beneath a mound of rubble, beside that of her half-Brachen boyfriend and his vampire best friend. Then she realized how silly a thought that was—Angel would probably survive and eventually claw his way back to the surface.

"It's just the subway." Doyle's soothing voice spoke close to her ear. Although, he was already semi-holding her in the close quarters, he slipped his arms more securely around her waist, chasing away the feeling of terror that had washed over her when certain death seemed imminent.

The walls ceased their vibrations, just as the small electronic device in Cordelia's back pocket began its own. This time, it was Doyle who let out a muffled cry. "Gah!"

"Cell phone." Cordelia explained, slipping her hand into her back pocket to retrieve the buzzing device. Her hand brushed against the soft bulge behind her and she understood just why Doyle had reacted the way that he had. "Sorry." She said, fumbling with the buttons in the dark, imagining the displeased faces of the two demons over her head.

From the other end of the phone, she heard crackling and hissing along with the familiar timbre of Wesley's voice uttering a few disconnected vowels. "Huh? What?" She asked into the receiver. "Say that again?"

"Cordelia. Now's really not a good time—" Angel began, and then halted as she held a hushing finger in his face and shoved the earpiece more tightly to the side of her head, listening intently to the few words she could make out.

"Oh, he's _invincible_ , is he?" She said pointedly, lifting her eyes to meet Angel's in the darkness. "He went to what? A snog demon? Ohhh, a slog demon—what's that exactly?" Now she had Angel's rapt attention, which was good, since he really needed to listen to this next part. "Cut out his heart?" She repeated Wesley's explanation out loud for the benefit of her present company. "Absolutely _cannot_ be killed… Wait. What…? How long? Six _what_? Hello?!" All she heard was silence from the other end of the phone, and she removed it from her ear, staring at the blank screen that meant the call had been disconnected.

"Well, file this under 'duh'—the guy's definitely invincible." She announced as she snapped the flip phone shut and slid it back into her pocket, once again getting a feel of Doyle's protruding anatomy pushed up behind her. " _But_ , the good news is it's not a forever thing. He'll go kablooey as soon as this snogging demon's mojo runs out. Bad news is—two out of three of us could be dead by then. The phone cut off before I could hear how long it lasts."

"Still… it's good news." Doyle offered, with a hopeful shrug in Angel's direction. "It means there's an end in sight."

A loud crash from the outside the small space, caused three sets of panicked eyes to widen even further. Cordelia couldn't see much in the nonexistent light, but she felt the presence of a killer, which was why she didn't question Angel's hand gripping her arm in the darkness and pulling her out of their hiding space, retreating toward the main tunnel once again. Doyle moved in synch behind the two of them, his enhanced demon eyes, allowing him not to stumble.

"Up here!" Angel called through the darkness, leading his mostly human companions up a dark stairwell, which was clearly not used often. As they hit the top, Angel kicked through a shoddy door that had been chained shut, and they were instantly hit with light and a crowd of people.

Cordelia panicked for a moment, expecting to see Angel burst into flames, but she quickly realized it was false light from the fluorescents overheard. They were still underground, on a crowded subway platform. Her second wave of panic was for the reaction the commuters would have to Doyle's spikes, but she could see that he'd already dropped them in favor of his more public-friendly visage.

"This way!" Doyle called, taking her by the hand and signaling toward a train that looked to be leaving the station at any moment. It was another platform over, which meant they had to move quickly, up one set of stairs, and down another. Angel didn't hesitate, hustling Cordelia along, keeping her in front of him at all times as she raced to keep up with Doyle. Thankfully, it was easier to do when he moved at human speed.

They made it to the train as the doors began to close; Doyle leapt into the sliding doors, pulling Cordelia in and making room for Angel to slip in behind them. The doors closed securely, right on Angel's heels. A thud against the outside window revealed that James was a hair too late. He stood on the platform glowering as the train made its departure from the station.

Cordelia grasped her aching sides once again, easing herself into one of the many empty seats in their car. "I really hope he dies soon." She grumbled, sucking in as much air as her lungs would allow. "Track and field was never my sport. I was more into jumping, screaming and waving pom poms."

As she continued to work on regaining control over her respiratory system, she noticed that both Angel and Doyle were still on full alert, like animals who could sense an unseen danger. They both looked up at the ceiling of the train, their eyes moving in unison from one end of the car to the other.

"Oh, no…" She groaned, reluctantly pushing herself out of her seat and moving to stand in her signature place between the two of them. "Please don't tell me—"

"Shhh." Angel responded, gesturing for her to listen to the now very distinct clunking from overhead.

Doyle stepped closer to her, keeping his arms extended outward at either side, as if they were being surrounded. Meanwhile, Angel, anticipating what was coming next, stepped forward instead of back, assuring that both Cordelia _and_ Doyle were shielded.

PLOOOSH!

The rear car window imploded as James swung through it, sending shards of glass in every direction. Cordelia was now behind both Angel and Doyle, and, therefore, didn't have a clear view of their foe's impressive calisthenics.

"Get back!" Angel instructed both his friends, moving to stand more definitively in the center of the subway car, ready to continue the fight with his old-friend-turned-nemesis. Doyle kept himself close to Cordelia, but his fists were balled at his sides, indicating that he was still very ready to leap into action.

"Well, this is a new twist on an old snake." James hissed malevolently at Angel, as he inched closer to his prey. "Is it possible you care about someone who isn't you?" He inquired, throwing a curious glance at the two bodies Angel was protecting. "Odd choice of lovers, Angelus—neither seems your type." His evil eyes raked over both Cordelia and Doyle, giving each of them a contemptuous once-over. "So, which one of these two pathetic creatures pleases you more? The malnourished human or the stinking half-breed?"

"Hey! This isn't a ménage a trois, buddy!" Cordelia shouted, reaching out to grab the shoulder of Doyle's leather jacket as if this proved her words. "It's a ménage a _dos,_ as in me and him. We're the only lovers here. We only love Angel in a platonic way. Brotherly, even. Nothing that involves nudity, or biting." She bit down on her lip as she realized how problematic her rebuttal had been.

Angel shot a protective glance over at Doyle and Cordelia, and then turned back to James, taking another step forward. "Don't worry about them."

"You're a changed man, is that it?" James asked facetiously, his wicked grin never wavering. "Not the same one who screwed Darla and couldn't care less about what happened to her."

"Well, um…" Angel swallowed apprehensively, as if James had hit a rather raw nerve. "I'm not _exactly_ the same."

"It's true!" Cordelia piped in, reverting to her dutiful cheerleader role. "He has a soul now, which means he cares about people. It has nothing to do with sex—which is actually really fortunate because, it's kind of a long story—."

"Cordy." Doyle interrupted.

"I should really consider a muzzle." She replied, with a tight, anxious grin.

"This gives me hope." James responded. "You might feel something when I snap their necks."

"Y'know, when I said brotherly, what I actually meant is that we often vie for attention and get on each other's nerves." Cordelia amended.

"That's not gonna happen." Angel said tightly, lifting an arm to make it clear he wasn't going to let James get anywhere near his friends. "This is between you and me. They're not a part of it."

"You made them a part of it when you killed Elizabeth." James seethed in reply.

From behind Angel, Doyle squared his shoulders, morphed into his spikes and extended his chin fearlessly to their opponent. "I gotta neck right here, bud!"

"God Doyle, _why_ must you always offer to sacrifice yourself for Angel's sake?!" Cordelia complained, her fingers tightening around the brown leather of his jacket as she imagined her boyfriend's neck being snapped right before her eyes. Then, of course, it struck her… "Oh. Right."

James narrowed his eyes at Cordelia, as if he couldn't comprehend her odd bouts of verbal diarrhea, her place in all this, or, her existence in general. After a brief moment of curious contemplation, his eyes danced back to Angel and within them was a spark of victory. He tilted his head knowingly. "So, it's _him_ , then." He surmised, with only the slightest raise of a brow. "Prepare to have your heart broken, Angelus."

"Too late." Angel bit back, his jaw tightening around the words. "Already broken."

"I don't believe you." James objected.

"Believe it or not, bud, he's tellin' the truth." Doyle explained, allowing Angel a moment to collect himself after that confession. "The woman he loved is already dead—and there's nothing ya can do here and now that'll be any worse than that."

"No." James argued, shaking his head vehemently and tensing all his muscles as if ready to uncoil at any moment. "There's no way—because if that were true you wouldn't be standing here playing games with me. You wouldn't be able to, because once she died or some bastard killed her, it would have killed everything in you!" James unleashed his bottled rage, moving faster than a pair of human eyes could follow—he reached down and ripped a seat loose, using it to smash Angel across the face. "You don't know what love is!"

Doyle was there, rushing forward to brace Angel from behind and do battle at his side. Being clearly outnumbered only seemed to amp James up further, as he eyed the now undefended Cordelia a few feet away. "Or maybe you do." He contradicted maliciously, leaping sideways over a low railing so he was balanced on an empty seat, ready to launch himself in any direction. "I might be too late to break your heart… I'll just have to settle for breaking his." He turned his evil eyes on Cordelia, stepping closer to the edge of the seat.

Time seemed to switch in to slow motion as James leapt into the air; he was aimed directly at Cordelia who could do nothing but close her eyes and raise her arms in defense, which wasn't much of a defense at all. She had no weapons, she had no supernatural abilities, she had nowhere to run. So, she waited for the impact and the pain that would accompany it… but there was only a minor impact with no pain to speak of, followed by a loud crash. She had been pushed and then she was caught. Angel was the pusher, shoving her aside as he intercepted James and tackled him into the opposite corner. Doyle was the catcher, softening her landing and holding her protectively against the opposite side of the subway car.

"How's that, invincible boy, huh?" Angel challenged, as he angrily beat James down into submission, violently shoving his opponent's face into the floor, a knee pushed into his back. "Is that your idea of love, James, hmm? It's not real unless it kills you?!"

"Yeah. What's yours? It's fun as long as it doesn't cost me anything?" James mumbled back, his body going slack, clearly giving up any shred of fight he had left.

Angel let go and backed up, letting James roll over freely, staring up from his prone position on the floor. He was panting, in distress as whatever had kept his clock ticking up until this point, finally ran out. "You think you won, just because you're still alive? I lived. You just existed."

The words had barely left James' lips before they turned to dust along with the rest of him. Leaving Cordelia, Doyle and Angel staring at an empty space on the floor.

* * *

The light was dimmer than usual on the roof of the Hyperion—nearly half the letters of the neon sign had burnt out. Odds were they'd stay that way for the foreseeable future, since they lacked the budget to replace them. And truthfully, it didn't matter. It wasn't a real hotel after all.

Luckily, the light pollution from the city paired with Doyle's night vision, was adequate enough for him to navigate the dark rooftop. He easily found the spot where Angel sat perched on the roof's edge, taking in the entire cityscape around them.

"Shoulda known I'd find ya here." Doyle noted, taking a seat on the ledge beside Angel. He sat in the opposition direction with his back facing the scenery, but twisted his body halfway around to admire the twinkling city lights.

"Closest thing to a mountaintop." Angel responded dully.

"Bet that whole meditating thing doesn't work half as well without all the demon monks, yeah?" Doyle remarked, reaching up to scratch an itch on the side of his face. "Y'know… it's been so crazy with all this vengeful-lover business, we haven't really had a chance to chat since you've been back."

Angel turned his head ever-so-slightly in Doyle's direction, looking for something he expected to see there. "Where's the Scotch?"

Doyle chuckled, holding out his empty hands for show. "Left it downstairs. Hope ya don't mind."

"I don't." Angel replied with just the slightest hint of a question entering his voice.

"Don't gimme that look, man." Doyle baulked. "Not saying I've given up the drink completely—it'll be a cold day in hell when that happens. But maybe this is a conversation can be had without liquid anesthetic."

"Cordelia's really done a number on you." Angel noted with a raise of his brows.

"Thanks for making me sound like her whipping boy." Doyle responded with a frown. "I'll have y'know I've managed to keep plenty o' my bad habits perfectly intact. I mean, ya should see my overflowing hamper."

Angel chuckled with amusement, probably at the thought of Doyle actually _using_ a hamper. "It's not a bad thing, Doyle." He said, wearing a small grin. "You love each other. You bring out the best in each other. That's the way it should be."

"Yeah, well, can't disagree with that… Thanks for keeping us safe today—most especially her." Doyle added, giving Angel a sideways glance. "I'd hate to have to go and fall apart all over again. Already done that too many times in my life."

"If it wasn't for me she wouldn't have been a target in the first place." Angel stated regretfully.

"Just so we're clear—I was never proud o' the falling apart bit." Doyle clarified with an emphatic wave of his hand.

"You got back up and kept going." Angel answered without judgment. "That's what counts."

"So… there any reason ya shouldn't be doing the same?" Doyle wondered, finally getting to the heart of the matter—the state of Angel's heart, to be exact.

"Cordelia already took care of the pep talk this morning." Angel wearily reminded his friend.

"This isn't a pep talk, bud." Doyle assured the other man. "This is your ol' pal Doyle reminding ya that it's okay to go on with your life. And that's really the problem here, isn't it? You're _okay_. And Buffy's not."

Angel took that in for a long beat, saying nothing. Doyle twisted himself around completely so that his legs dangled over the edge of the roof, kicking against the stucco façade on the hotel's exterior. Many stories below cars buzzed by on the street, looking like toys.

"In all those years of living, no one ever mattered. Not like she did. And now she's gone forever." Angel finally admitted the unspoken truth that had been looming since his return. "I just feel… like I'm betraying her somehow."

"Well, that's where you're wrong." Doyle disagreed. "If you were alone in the dark, lying in a pool o' your own vomit— _that_ would be betraying her. See, I happen to think there's no better way of honoring the dead than to do what they'd want ya to do. And Buffy—she was a warrior. What she'd want is for you to keep fighting the battle she didn't get to finish."

"You think?" Angel wondered, the smallest trace of a smile returning to his face.

"I do." Doyle confirmed. "More importantly, I know that if ya tried the other way—the self destructive way I'm so good at—Cordy would be there pulling ya up by your bootstraps!" They both laughed at that imagery, knowing it was 100% accurate. "I'd be doing the same; so would Wes and Gunn. 'Cause that's what friends do, and if ya haven't noticed, you've got a decent amount of 'em these days."

"I guess I do." Angel agreed. "But I don't wear bootstraps."

"Uh huh. Everyone's a comedian these days. Even you." Doyle stated dryly, spinning his body back around and placing his feet solidly on the ground. "If we're done here—I've gotta get home for dinner. I promised Cordy I wouldn't be too late."

"Whipped." Angel mumbled, the smile evident in his voice.

"I heard that." Doyle grumbled back, even as a matching grin spread across his own face. "You're welcome to come with—there's always room for you at our table, man."

"Thanks… but I don't eat." Angel reminded Doyle.

"And, sometimes that's a good thing at our house." Doyle admitted with a deprecating chuckle. He slapped Angel on the shoulder and headed back across the dark rooftop and descended the stairs into the light, leaving his friend to an evening of quiet contemplation.

* * *

Doyle twisted his key in the lock, pushed the front door open and was immediately hit with the thick stench of something burning. He waved the offensive odor out of his face, and walked apprehensively toward the likely source, muttering to his phantom roommate on the way. "Dennis, man. Please tell me she didn't do what I think she did."

Of course, the ghost gave him no verbal answer, but he felt a surge of pressure against his left shoulder that felt suspiciously like a sympathetic pat. Dropping his keys on the dining table with a clatter, Doyle proceeded toward the kitchen. It was there he found his girlfriend, frantically waving an oven mitt in front of the open window, encouraging the foul stench to exit.

"Hi, honey. I'm home." He announced in a faux-American accent, leaning over to pat their cat, Clover, on the furry little head. The feline was lounging on the kitchen table, diligently licking her paws and paying no mind to Cordelia's disastrous attempts at traditional domesticity.

"Oh, hi!" She said, flashing a rather large, sheepish grin in his direction. "I didn't think you'd be home so soon."

"You, ah… cooked." He observed, pointing at the unidentifiable charred remains sitting on top of the still-smoking oven. " _What_ did ya cook?"

Biting her lip and glancing down at the tray of "food," Cordelia gave a little shrug. "Fish and chips?" She looked back at him, once again flashing her embarrassed smile. "Isn't that an Irish thing?"

"English." Doyle corrected, figuring that it was nice of her to try, even if she still had trouble discerning the difference between Irish customs and British ones. He stepped a little closer to further inspect the catastrophe on the stove. "So… which is the fish and which is the chips?"

"You know, I'm really not sure at this point." She admitted. "I don't think it matters—it's all going to the same place, right?"

"Ah…" _Gulp_. Doyle blinked up at her enthusiastic face and then back down at the pile of charcoal he was expected to consume. "Yeah." He heard himself croak, knowing that he'd choke it all down to keep that smile on her face. But really, _really_ not looking forward to it. "Sure is."

She was staring at him expectantly, and then her face broke and she began to laugh. "The garbage." She clarified, arching a brow. "You didn't really think I'd make you eat that, did you? I ordered Chinese. Should be here in about twenty minutes."

"Oh, thank God." He uttered, lifting a hand to his chest melodramatically and earning an affectionate swat from the cook.

Rolling her eyes at his hysterics, which in turn, caused her short bob to fluff outward, Cordelia picked up the tray of inedible food and attempted to slide it into the open trash can. "You spoiled me with all those home cooked meals this summer." She rationalized, wrinkling her nose at the burnt remains still firmly stuck to the baking sheet. "I thought—'if Doyle can do it, how hard can it be?'"

"It's not that hard, Princess. It just takes a few pointers, that's all." Doyle replied, taking the metal tray out of her hand and dumping the entire thing into the open can—there was no point in trying to chisel away the fossilized fish… or was it chips? Stepping closer to her, he slipped his arms around her waist and gave her an affectionate peck on the tip of her nose. "I'd be happy to teach ya."

" _Or_ , you can just always be here to cook it for me." She suggested cutely, sliding her hands around his neck and batting her eyelashes up at him. She arched up on her tippy toes to capture his lips this time, letting their kiss linger for an extended moment. When they parted, both sets of eyes twinkled, both mouths turned upward at the corners.

Doyle stared down at the woman in his arms, and thought back to the conversation he'd so recently had with Angel, and to the one she'd had with Angel before that. "What if I'm not always here?" He pushed himself to ask.

"I'd get takeout." She answered with a shrug, missing his intended meaning.

"That's, ah… not what I meant." He clarified, taking one of her hands into his own and rubbing his thumb against her silky-soft skin. "If I wasn't around anymore. If something happened…"

Her eyes widened and her smile faded as she grasped the serious nature of his words. "Wow, Doyle. Way to bring the room down." She lightly chastised. "We couldn't save the what-would-I-do-if-you-died conversation for after dinner, huh?"

"Sorry." He mumbled, shifting his gaze down to their joined hands. "I just want ya to know, that no matter what happens to me… I always want ya to keep living. I always want ya to be _happy_."

She sighed heavily, taking back possession of her own hands and sliding them upward, letting them land on Doyle's cheeks so she could force him to look her straight in the hazel eyes. "Okay, I get it." She said softly, but seriously. "You don't have to worry—I wouldn't give up. It's not my style. Promise."

"Good." He replied. "That's good."

"Am I supposed to tell you what to do if I die?" She proposed.

"Ah, no." He answered with a shake of his head. "That's not necessary."

She raised her eyebrows and removed her hands from his face. "C'mon, Doyle, if you get to hypothetically go first, then so do I." She goaded. "Do you want me to tell you to move on?"

"Move on?" He echoed the words uncertainly, suddenly regretting his choice of topic now that the tables had been turned. "Ah, well… if that's what ya really want…"

"It's not." She said sharply.

"Oh." This time it was Doyle's eyebrows that arched upward. "It's not?"

"Heck no." She asserted, folding her arms across her chest. "You think I wanna be stuck on some fluffy white cloud watching you fall in love with someone else and forget all about me? What kind of afterlife is that?"

Doyle slowly processed her reasoning as he scratched at his unkempt hair. "I really don't think there's any danger o' that—."

"I hope not, buster, because I would _so_ haunt your ass." She faux-threatened, narrowing her eyes at him and poking a finger into his chest. "I want you to remain forever-alone, pining for me for the remainder of your days… of course, If you finally wake up and realize you've actually been in love with Angel this whole time, I guess my ghost-self would have to step aside."

He began to shake his head rapidly, realizing he'd walked himself right into this joke at his expense. "Alright, alright. I've learned my lesson, yeah? No more morbid talk before dinner."

"Or ever again." She instructed, moving back into his personal space. "We're alive, we're together, we're madly in love—let's just enjoy that and not worry about the what-ifs. I think a wise-ish half-demon once suggested something to that effect."

"Deal." Doyle agreed, leaning down to kiss her once again. "But just so we're clear, you were kidding 'bout the whole forever-alone bit, yeah?"

* * *

 **A/N - Thanks so much for the enthusiasm right out of the gate, guys! These first few chapters were pretty massive, but I wanted to keep things moving along. The rest of the chapters will be fairly normal-sized. ;) And, while I can't exactly promise smooth sailing ahead (because where's the fun in that?) I can say that Season Three isn't nearly as dark as Season Two (thank goodness!) There will be challenges for Cordy/Doyle and the entire gang to face, but I'll keep the emotional gut punches to a minimum. hehe.**


	4. That Vision Thing, Part 1

**4\. That Vision Thing, Part I**

Sipping from the foamy beverage in front of him, Doyle snuck a peek over his shoulder at the Lun'gnar Demon singing its heart out to Journey's _Wheel In the Sky_. The thing wasn't half bad, if you could ignore all the growling.

Still no sign of Merl. That figured. The weasely little demon might have a loose tongue, but he wasn't the most dependable snitch around. Doyle lifted his wrist and checked the time on his vintage timepiece; it worked better than ever since Cordelia'd had it fixed. That was how Doyle could tell Merl was over an hour late. This was a waste of time… then again, Doyle had a very valid excuse for sitting at a bar, enjoying a cold beer. He supposed he should make the most of it.

"This seat taken?" A female voice inquired, as the person who owned the voice slid herself onto the empty barstool at Doyle's left.

"All yours." He responded before looking up—which, as it turned out, had been a mistake. When he did toss a look toward his new neighbor, it was a familiar face he saw smirking back at him. Just about the smarmiest smirk on the planet. "On second thought—try the other end o' the bar or, better yet, another bar altogether."

Lilah Morgan's fake smile didn't waver, as she proceeded to ignore his request, flagging down the bartender with a small flick of her wrist. "Scotch. Thirty-year old. Two ice cubes."

Doyle said nothing, did nothing, Kept his eyes focused on his own drink as he considered chugging it and making a quick exit. The stink of Wolfram & Hart emanated from the woman at his side and he didn't think he had the stomach to absorb it for an extended amount of time.

"There's no reason to be rude, Mr. Doyle." Lilah spoke again, once her drink order had been filled. "I just wanna talk."

"To me?" Doyle scoffed in utter disbelief. "You're barking up the wrong tree, lady. I'm not interested in hearing a word ya have to say."

"I beg to differ." She said smoothly, pausing to take a sip of her Scotch. "You have a problem—I have a solution."

Doyle shook his head, annoyed that he was actually going to ask the next question. "What problem are ya referring to exactly?"

She twisted her body around so she was directly facing him and crossed one leg over the other, showing off her undoubtedly expensive heels. "Your visions. They're killing you." She stated matter-of-factly. "My firm can take them away—call it a cease and desist order, straight to the Higher Powers. We could even arrange some kind of monetary settlement, for the pain and suffering you've had to endure thus far. We'd make it very worth your while."

"I don't know what ya heard, but the visions aren't something I'm looking to get rid of." Doyle corrected gruffly, strongly disliking the thought of Wolfram & Hart siphoning through his medical records and discovering the neurological issues he'd been battling for the past year and a half.

"Hmm." Lilah reacted with faux-surprise. "I guess our intel is wrong." She swiveled back to her drink, raising it to her lips as she continued to speak in her typical condescending manner. "That, or you're comfortable losing the last vestiges of your humanity in order to play messenger-boy."

She sipped from her drink once again, pretending their conversation was over. It probably should have been, but Doyle hated letting her get the last word. "Nice try." He said facetiously. "I could tell ya that it ain't gonna happen. But, truth is, even if it does, I've made my peace with it. Now it's time for one of us to be going, and I'm thinking it should be you. I was here first."

The smile he saw play across Lilah's lips was decidedly wicked. This woman clearly got off on pushing people's buttons, regardless of the outcome.

She uncrossed her legs and slid off the barstool, lifting her glass and downing the remainder of the contents, she then plunked it down on the bar. "Think about my offer, Mr. Doyle. It may come in handy someday." She turned to leave and then paused, turning back around and waving an index finger in the air. "Oh, and just so you know, you'll probably be getting a visit from one of my associates very soon. He's a tedious, little man, obsessed with trivial things like real estate code violations. Feel free to squash him like the bug he is."

Having said her piece she disappeared into the crowd, heading vaguely in the direction of the exit. Doyle glowered after her, filled with both annoyance and bemusement. She wasn't the kind of person he could understand or empathize with in any way—the lawyers who worked at Wolfram & Hart might as well be aliens. Or demons.

In the very least, they were certainly sociopaths.

"She's a piece of work, that one." Lorne's voice cut through Doyle's reverie. Doyle turned to find the tall, colorfully dressed demon standing beside the empty barstool Lilah had so recently vacated. "Always stirring someone's pot. Shake it off, my hot-blooded friend, before you boil over."

Doyle frowned, hating that Lorne was right. Although he could plainly see right through Lilah's transparent manipulations, they had still hit their target. Not that he was even remotely considering her offer; he just knew that Wolfram & Hart hardly made offers that could so easily be refused. And that thought was extremely unsettling.

"Wolfram & Hart usually stack the deck in their favor." Doyle mused. "What they don't know is I've had an ace up my sleeve all along, yeah?"

"I hope you have more than one ace, little buddy." Lorne amended, giving Doyle a supportive pat on the shoulder. "I think you're probably gonna need it."

* * *

Doyle shuffled inside the front door of his apartment, letting Dennis take care of closing the door behind him. Inside, the lights were off and he could see the telltale flicker of the TV bouncing off the walls around him.

"Hey." Cordelia greeted him, as he removed his leather jacket and lazily tossed it over one of the armchairs. She was lounging across the couch in her comfy gray sweatpants with Clover nestled beside her. As Doyle stepped further into the room he caught a glimpse of the movie she was watching, which featured a brunette in a hospital gown being hoisted through a window by some punk with 90s hair and a leather jacket.

"What ya watching?" He asked as he motioned to the lack of space on the couch.

She moved her legs to accommodate him, and he gladly plopped his tired bones down beside her. Clover woke from her catnap, stretched her limbs and happily crawled her way onto his available lap.

"This creepy doctor is stealing people's hearts. I forget what it's called." She answered distractedly, lifting a silver bowl from the side table and offering it to him. "Popcorn?"

"No, thanks." He politely declined, waving the bowl away. He ran his fingers through the fur of the purring feline in his lap instead.

"How was your evening with Merl?" Cordelia asked, tossing a handful of popcorn into her mouth without taking her eyes off the flickering screen. "Do we have a new case?"

"Never showed." Doyle responded, sliding an arm around her shoulders, encouraging her to readjust herself comfortably into the crook of his arm. "One o' these days, I'll make him sorry for flaking on me."

"Oooh, tough guy." She teased, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow.

"I did run into someone else." He told her, unconsciously toying with a strand of her hair between his fingers. "Lilah Morgan—that witch who works for Wolfram & Hart. She offered to take away my visions."

Cordelia had been happily munching on her popcorn up until that point; she stopped chewing as his words registered and finally removed her eyes from the pictures on the screen. "Seriously?" She asked. "Can they do that?"

"I'm sure there's a lot they can do that they shouldn't be doing." Doyle responded.

"I hope you told her where she could stick her offer." Cordelia said. "I mean, you want to get rid of the visions someday, but not like _that_. We still have a lot of people to save before Angel does the Shanshu thing."

"I have to wonder why she thought I'd go for a thing like that." Doyle answered pensively. "Not saying I've ever been a fan o' the skull-splitting migraines, but even at my worst I wouldn't have signed Angel's destiny over to the likes of them."

"They clearly don't know you very well." Cordelia reasoned. "There's nothing more important to you than Angel's mission."

"There's one other thing." He corrected, giving her a wink and a flash of the dimple, both of which earned him a smile in return.

"That's right." She enthused, leaning into him as she turned her eyes back to the flickering TV set. "Just you and me and the visions make three."

"Always." He earnestly agreed, stretching his legs across the coffee table in front of him and sinking deeper into the couch cushions. Having no interest in the gruesome pictures floating across the TV screen, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, enjoying the simple pleasures that his life had to offer. A sleeping cat warming his lap, a dutiful ghost cleaning stray pieces of popcorn from the carpet under their feet and the woman he loved resting comfortably against his side.

"Doyle?" Cordelia's muffled voice came from somewhere below his head, where she rested against his upper chest.

"Hmm?" He answered without opening his eyes.

"They'll probably do something to make you reconsider their offer." She guessed, the barest trace of worry evident in her voice.

He re-opened his eyes, but he still didn't move a muscle. His gaze drilled upward through the ceiling. "I'm betting on it."

* * *

Cordelia sipped from her cardboard to-go cup, as she pushed through the front doors to the Hyperion, tossing a comment over her shoulder at the man slouching along behind her. He wasn't in a terrible hurry to return to work after their extended lunch break—one that had included a long walk through the park, and an all-too-brief make out session under a tree. Nor was he terribly eager to continue the one-sided conversation they'd been having during their journey back to the office. "Angel's back." She said emphatically. "I bet I could teach Fred to answer phones and file paperwork from under the desk. There's no better time for us to put in a vacation request."

Doyle only shrugged in response, silently trying to do the math in his head—calculating how long it would be until a certain blonde visitor showed up on their doorstep with a very special package for Angel. It was _possible_ they'd have time to sail away for a few weeks and be back in time to assist in the birth of Angel's son, but there was no guarantee. The future was a funny thing. And if Doyle learned anything from the previous year, it was that things happened when they happened—which was generally a lot sooner than he ever expected or wanted them to happen.

"The timing may not be as great as y'think." Doyle hedged. "Wes has been doing a lotta research lately."

"Sounds like regular old status quo to me." Cordelia pointed out.

"Yeah, well, based on what he's been reading, he thinks the apocalypse isn't too far off." Doyle continued to make his case.

"Again I say, the status is remarkably quo." Cordelia rebutted smartly.

"Not just _an_ apocalypse, love. This isn't Sunnydale shenanigans we're talking about." Doyle clarified. "I'm talking _the_ apocalypse. The end o' days the Mohra demon spoke of way back when, followed by the Scourge's arrival—which, when y'think about it, makes it seem way overdue, yeah?"

"Even more reason for us to go _now_." Cordelia reasoned. "Fat chance Wes will give us any time off once all the rain of fire and oceans of blood starts up. Plus, how gross it would be to cruise around in an ocean of blood—I mean, can you say 'mood-killer?'"

"I'll talk to him." Doyle promised, chuckling despite himself. Most other people would have been horrified by the reality of a pending apocalypse, but Cordelia and Doyle both knew that joking about mortal danger was the only way they'd be able to face it. They couldn't cower in fear; they had to laugh it off and live in the moment. It's what they'd both agreed to do, and thus far, it had been working. In fact, their summer together had been one of the best summers Doyle could recall in a long time. Sure, they'd worked long hours and hadn't ventured any farther than the overpopulated beaches of Venice, California, but they'd done it all happily side-by-side. That's what mattered. That's what would continue to matter.

He hoped.

As they approached the front reception counter, they found two of their Angel Investigations colleagues, plus one Fred, chowing down on white containers full of Chinese food.

"Fred, you're standing upright." Cordelia noticed, arching a vaguely impressed brow. "And eating something other than tacos."

"I've been forking with Gunn." She said proudly, which caused all eyebrows present to rise upward in unison.

"You move fast." Cordelia deadpanned, her eyes shifting to a conspicuous pile of paperwork that was sitting beside the various Chinese food cartons. "What's all this?"

Gunn answered through a mouth full of noodles. "Some weasel in a fancy suit brought it—think he said his name was Gordon."

"Gavin." Wesley corrected. "Park. He's an attorney at Wolfram & Hart. Notifying us that the hotel is in violation of 57 city codes."

"Well, that's annoying." Cordelia replied, wrinkling her nose as she shuffled through the stack of very official looking documents. "Think it's anything we have to worry about?"

Doyle peered over her shoulder spotting words such as "earthquake-proofing," "asbestos" and "termites." "Maybe there's still time to do that historical landmark thing." He suggested aloud, even as he silently reflected on the fact that Lilah had been telling the truth about at least one thing—her annoying colleague in real estate had, indeed, paid them a visit.

"Unfortunately, landmark status wouldn't excuse us from the vast majority of these safety violations." Wesley replied unhappily. "Assuming they are all, in fact, valid… which I fear they are."

"So we get a little bug spray. Nail some plywood over the cracks." Gunn said dismissively, still chomping away on his food. "Compared to my old joint, this place is the Pentagon!"

"Much safer than my cave." Fred quietly agreed.

Doyle had wanted to laugh, but any attempt to do so was thwarted by the silent alarm bell that went off in his brain, warning him that if he wanted to spare the human part of his brain any further damage, then he had all of two seconds to morph into his demon form. Upon discovering that his demon half could withstand the damage, he'd been much more inclined to use it. After all, being a demon for a few minutes wasn't nearly as bad as being a demon for the rest of his life.

Plus, it usually kept him from crashing to the floor in a heap.

As soon as the spikes locked into place, Doyle was hit with the figurative wrecking ball that was his latest vision. Various blurry images played through his mind's eye—a shop full of herbs, a shiny gold coin, a pair of fearsome demons in possession of some rather vicious-looking claws. And somewhere in the recesses of the visceral imagery, he could hear a woman screaming out in pain.

The fog of the vision began to ebb away, but the screams did not. That's when he realized they hadn't been part of the vision at all. They'd been coming from the woman who had been standing beside him. The woman who was now lying on the floor, with Wesley and Gunn trying to assist her in fighting off an unseen attacker. Fred remained behind the reception counter, fork in hand, looking shell-shocked as she watched the strange scene unfold.

"Cordy?!" Doyle cried, shaking off the last remnants of the vision-cloud, as well as his demon face. He immediately crouched down beside her to find out what had sent her screaming to the floor.

"What is it?!" Angel's panicked voice echoed throughout the vast room as he raced down the staircase and joined the small cluster of worried individuals near the reception area. "What happened?!"

Gunn moved aside so that Doyle could get closer and assess the situation. "Are ya okay?" He demanded, his hands settling against her abdomen. She winced as they landed and he retracted them quickly.

Sitting up, looking just as confused as everyone else, Cordelia reached over to inspect her shoulder and upper back. As she pulled her fingers away, there was a trace of blood beginning to permeate through her light-colored blouse. "I-I don't know. " She mumbled in confusion. "It felt like… claws." She explained, as she moved her hands to the front of her blouse, lifting it halfway to reveal a series of angry red marks across her belly. "Definitely claws."

"What did that?" Angel demanded peering down at the wounds over Doyle's shoulder. His head popped back up as he hastily searched the lobby. "Is there something in here?"

"Nothing." Gunn claimed. "One minute we was standing here chatting 'bout how safe this place is and the next minute Cordy was on the floor screaming and bleeding."

" _Something_ did this." Angel insisted, looking around the expansive room, as if he were suddenly going to find the concealed attacker. "It might still be here."

"I knew an invisible girl back in high school—she was obsessed with me." Cordelia suggested, looking over her shoulder quizzically. "Marcy, is that you?"

"Your invisible girl got claws?" Gunn wondered.

Barely listening to the others, Doyle had reached out to gingerly trace his fingers around the circumference of Cordelia's wound. "I don't understand." He mumbled to himself.

Carefully placing a hand on Cordelia's unwounded shoulder, Wesley attempted to offer something semi-useful. "Unlikely a poltergeist. They usually reveal themselves quite quickly and we've been in the hotel for nearly a year."

Cordelia reached out to Doyle, indicating that she wanted to stand, and he gently helped her to her feet, still wearing his own mask of puzzlement and worry. Fred had rushed away from the counter by this point, but she returned bearing the first aid kit. She timidly placed it on the countertop.

"Did anyone see _anything_?" Angel asked, still on high alert. He hadn't stopped looking around for the mysterious "nothing" that had attacked Cordelia.

Doyle's throat had dried out, but he somehow managed to find his voice trapped deep within his parched vocal chords. "I saw the thing that did this." He croaked, still not quite believing the words he was about to say. "It was in my vision."


	5. That Vision Thing, Part 2

**A/N- I rarely add an author's note mid-chapter, because I hate breaking the flow, but I do like to respond to reviews. (Generally, I do this via PM, but I can't respond directly to "guests.") First let me say, THANK YOU all for your very honest and heartfelt responses (this goes for everyone who reviews; all the feedback is truly appreciated). I'm totally here for whatever you guys wanna throw at me; I definitely don't expect only glowing reviews. So, yes, thank you, guest, for your outrage... even if it wasn't quite what I was going for. ;)**

 **Am I a little disappointed that you think I'm fridging Cordy? Sure. Is that my actual intention? No, of course not. I adore Cordy and I always try and write her as the powerful woman I believe she is. With that said... I have a tendency to do bad things to the characters I love, because challenging them shows what they're really made of, for better or for worse. I've never seen Cordelia's strength as a physical attribute, but in strength of will and spirit. (That doesn't mean she can't or won't learn to use a sword, but swordplay doesn't equal strength in my eyes). Yes, I chose to throw her a curveball in this episode and it's going to hurt, but I didn't do it to victimize her or give Doyle something new to angst about. I did it to highlight Cordy's strength and courage. She's a character that can face her worst fears and keep on fighting. She's a character who can bounce back. I pushed Doyle until he broke last season and I was actually a little worried that I had too heavy handedly turned Cordy into his emotional crutch. Maybe I overcompensated by giving Doyle some physical strength, trying to make him a little more worthy of HER?**

 **OR... maybe you don't know the whole story yet. ;) Despite these first several chapters in which Cordy is colored as "Doyle's girlfriend," she is obviously so much more than that. There is (as always) method to my madness (and my sadism). I wrote these chapters while looking at a much bigger picture and I assure you, I'm not tormenting Cordy *just* to service Doyle's story. I had reasons for choosing the path I chose and *hopefully* you will continue to read and eventually understand those reasons and perhaps even, dare I say... like them? That is my hope, anyway. If not, then bless you for reading this far and I'm sorry to disappoint. I do believe that I have written a story that is worthy of not just Doyle, but Cordelia, too. And I hope you'll stick around (at least to the very end of "That Vision Thing") to see the proof.**

 **I am, however, truly sorry for not letting Cordy behead Silas last season. I'll try and make that up to you at some point. xx**

* * *

 **5\. That Vision Thing, Part II**

"Here, drink this." Wesley instructed, passing a cup of water to the woman planted on the circular sofa near the center of the lobby. She obediently took the small paper cup and sipped from it. "Are you sure you don't want me to dress your wounds?"

"No, I'm fine." She assured him, after swallowing a gulp of water. "The cuts aren't that deep. I was just taken by surprise, that's all."

"Understandably." Wesley replied sympathetically, shifting his attention to the half-demon on Cordelia's left, who's worried eyes had never left her face. On her other side sat Angel, looking every bit as concerned as his best friend. For a brief moment, Wesley flashed back to the earliest days of Angel Investigations, when he'd often felt like the odd man out amongst this tightknit threesome. It was a silly thought; they'd been through so much together and Wesley was far from a third wheel these days. He was, in fact, their boss. " _Ahem_ … Fred and Gunn are searching for herbalist shops in the area. Doyle…? Perhaps you can explain once again. The creatures from your vision—you didn't actually see them attacking Cordelia?"

Doyle reluctantly ripped his anxious gaze off his girlfriend as he addressed Wesley. He didn't look like he had much in the way of patience at the moment. "I told ya—the things I saw were attacking someone inside that shop. And they looked very much _visible_ while they were doing it."

"What happened to Cordelia isn't a coincidence." Angel inferred. "If we can identify the demons, maybe we'll find out how they were able to attack her without being seen."

"And keep them from doing it again." Cordelia added, rubbing her sore belly. "Please?"

"Don't forget about the coin." Doyle reminded them. "It felt like the most important part o' the vision. It's possible the demons were looking for that."

"Yo, English!" Gunn interrupted, waving a piece of paper from the other end of the lobby. "We got five herb shops in Chinatown."

"Very good. We'll start searching for the coin in those locations." Wesley declared with aplomb. "Doyle, I'll need you on research duty, as you're the only one who can identify the demons. Cordelia, I think it would be best for you to take the rest of the evening off. Why don't I ask Fred to take you home, that way Doyle won't have to worry?"

Cordelia wrinkled her nose in disapproval, but it was Doyle who spoke up first. "Ah, no offense to Fred there, but considering she spent most o' the day sitting under a table, I'm not exactly confident in 'er caretaking abilities, yeah?"

"Guys, I'm _fine_." Cordelia reiterated, leveling a slightly exasperated stare at each of them. "I'd rather stay and help with the research—and by help, I mean wake up Doyle when he starts to doze."

"You should take Fred to your place." Angel said, backing up Wesley's suggestion. "You all should go, do the research there. We don't know that it's safe here."

"That is a good point." Wesley agreed. Although he had strong doubts that whatever had attacked Cordelia still lingered, he wasn't looking to take any chances.

"Sure. Research party at our place." Cordelia relented, tossing a curious glance toward the young woman seated across the lobby, who seemed to be reading an incredibly moving passage… from the phonebook. "It'll be a blast."

* * *

Awkward. That's what it was.

Not the typical, pleasant kind of awkward that you expected when first getting to know someone, but the suffocating kind of awkward that resulted from simultaneously worrying about your recently assaulted girlfriend while babysitting an unpredictable houseguest who had a tendency to do odd things without warning. Doyle pulled his head back into the kitchen before he was spotted by either of the two brunettes in the other room— they sat on complete opposite ends of the room, each pretending to be absorbed in their respective dusty, old books.

It was probably safer that way, with the dense layers of uncomfortable silence.

Listening to the drone of Wesley's voice through the receiver in his hand, Doyle nodded along, absorbing all the information coming from the other end. He watched as Clover scurried by his feet on the way to the water bowl. She'd been wary of the new stranger as well—prowling around the perimeter of the living room without ever getting too close.

"Yeah, I got it." Doyle finally spoke into the handset as the speaker on the other end came to a definitive pause. "Thanks, Wes. We'll see ya later."

Hanging up the phone, Doyle finally allowed himself to take a deep breath of relief and then padded his way into the living room to share the good news. "That was Wes." Doyle announced, earning the attention of both living room occupants. "They found the coin and, more importantly, killed the demons."

Cordelia eagerly slammed her book shut, hoisting it off her lap and plopping it down on the coffee table. She stretched her arms into the air and then rubbed at her tired eyes. "About time." She declared. "That means we're done here, right? Doesn't matter what those things were as long as they're dead now."

"Guess so." Doyle said tentatively, eying the small patch of enflamed skin that peeked out the back of Cordelia's blouse.

She caught his worried frown, and frowned right back at him. "I know what you're doing." She reproached him. "Stop looking at me like I'm some poor helpless damsel who can't handle a flesh wound—they're cuts. They'll heal."

"If I had some kryktipo root I could make you a salve." Fred offered, from her place on the couch, still holding tightly to the large book in her arms as if it was a life preserver. "But… I guess that only grows in Pylea. I forget sometimes. Maybe comfrey leaves? Is that something we have here?"

"How about peanut butter?" Cordelia suggested. "We have that."

"I'm not sure peanut butter has any medicinal properties." Fred replied, looking a bit unsure of herself. "I guess we could try it."

"Not to wear—to eat. I'm starving." Cordelia clarified, pushing herself out of the plush armchair and heading toward the kitchen. She gave Doyle a pat on the shoulder as she walked by. "At ease, soldier. This battle is over. There's nothing to worry ab—"

"Ooooow!"

Doyle knew she was in the middle of a sentence, but he couldn't hear her finish over the sound of his own screams—he was hit with his second vision of the day. No warning this time. No chance to morph into his demon face. Not to mention how unusual it was for him to have another vision so soon—they rarely came this close together. It struck him down like a lightning bolt, forcing him to his knees. Having been a while since he'd taken the full brunt of a vision, he'd nearly forgotten how debilitating they could be. Nearly a full minute passed before he could see straight again—and when he did see straight, he was horrified by what lay in front of him.

Cordelia was also on the floor, and although he couldn't recall hearing her scream this time, he didn't doubt that she had. He was tempted to scream himself as he saw the injury that had just been inflicted upon her—the entire right side of her face, covered in gigantic boils.

"No." He gasped, crawling forward on his hands and knees and pulling her toward him. "Oh, no. Cordy!" He gently slid his hand into her hair, cradling the back of her head as he assessed the fresh damage. "Fred, call Wes! Tell him to get over here as soon as he can!"

The tiny brunette nodded and rushed from the room to do as Doyle had asked.

Doyle remained motionless, his arms were wrapped around Cordelia who was close to tears as she ran her fingertips over the grotesque boils that now occupied a good portion of her face. Her eyes shimmered with the salty droplets and her lips trembled. And then she turned those watery pools in Doyle's direction. "What's happening to me?"

* * *

"You're suggesting that Cordelia is exhibiting physical manifestations of your visions?"

Doyle stood across from his teammates, his arms folded across his chest; deep worry lines were etched into his forehead. "I'm not _suggesting_ anything." Doyle bit back at the proverbial brains of their operation—frustrated that Wes' giant brain couldn't comprehend the obvious. "I'm telling ya—that's what's happening."

"Is she alright?" Angel asked, his eyes darting to the locked bathroom door, where Cordelia had fled prior to their arrival. "Is it like before?"

"No claws this time." Doyle replied gloomily. "The demon I saw was covered in giant pustules and whatnot. I'll let ya guess what that did to her."

There were reactions all around as Wesley and Gunn guessed. Angel turned away from the men lingering by the front door and paced a few steps further into the living room as he processed the gravity of the situation.

"This ever happen before?" Gunn asked. "I mean, not _this_ this, but the visions going all fourth dimensional?"

"I dunno." Doyle rubbed furiously at his throbbing forehead, turning his eyes to the floor beneath his feet. "I never tried to find out more 'bout the visions than I needed to—the Powers have a message for Angel; I get a migraine with pictures."

"A one-way signal. Like a TV set inside your brain." Fred spoke up, reminding everyone she was still in the room. She had remained quietly curled up on the couch when the others arrived, her knees tucked under her chin in a protective posture. Clover had finally decided to make nice, sidling up to the strange girl and stretching out across the cushion beside her.

"That's more or less accurate." Doyle reasoned. "Except there's no remote control."

"And real shoddy customer service." Gunn interjected.

Doyle couldn't disagree with that. He let out a derisive little snort as he shared what he did know about those mysterious string-pullers upstairs. "The Higher Powers don't take too kindly to questions; and what I mean by that is they're far more likely to turn us into toads than give us answers."

"I wish I had something helpful to share, but there's not much written about the visions themselves." Wesley added regretfully. "I have a few texts that mention seers, but I doubt they'd be helpful in diagnosing Cordelia's condition. She isn't a seer—the visions aren't hers. I haven't a clue as to why they'd be affecting her in such a way—I shouldn't think it possible."

"Anything's possible." Angel stated ominously, sharing a loaded glance with Doyle. "We should know that by now."

Doyle took Angel's meaning for what it was—an acknowledgement that Doyle's very _existence_ shouldn't be possible. A fact that no one in the room knew, aside from the two of them.

Along with that fact, Doyle had to accept another one: many present day events were in some way influenced by his continued presence—Cordelia's current suffering included. There was a very strong probability that this was only happening because Doyle was there to _make_ it happen. And that, right there, was the hardest part of his job—knowing that he was partly responsible for both the good and the bad. Even when he did nothing, he was doing something simply by breathing.

"Yeah, so the Powers ain't a real friendly bunch." Gunn gathered. "But they ain't stupid—striking down a member of your own team is definitely a stupid move."

"It does seem rather counter-intuitive." Wesley mused. "And rather out-of-the-blue. Why change their modus operandi after all this time?"

Doyle shook his head, finally verbalizing the instinct that had been percolating deep inside his gut. "This wasn't the work of the Powers That Be."

"You're thinking Wolfram & Hart." Angel speculated, not sounding like he disagreed.

"Has their stank alright." Gunn chimed in. "Heavy on the sulfur."

"That Lilah broad hit me up at Caritas a few nights ago." Doyle explained, allowing the bitterness to creep into his voice. "She 'offered' to take the visions off my hands… I figured they'd do something to make me to change my mind, I just didn't think they'd use Cordy to do it!"

Angel's jaw tightened with fury as he paced a few steps back toward Doyle. "I'll make them wish they hadn't."

"It seems a reasonable assumption that Wolfram & Hart are behind this." Wesley interpolated, holding up a hand to still Angel's movements. "And we know how _unreasonable_ they are—threatening them will get us nowhere. We must instead focus on reversing Cordelia's affliction ourselves. And, more importantly, prevent it from reoccurring."

"You ain't kidding. Doyle sees some messed up shit in those visions—remember the time that guy jammed a knife in his eye?" Gunn blurted out.

Doyle turned a whiter shade of pale as Gunn's horrifying words landed. Not that it was brand new information—he'd spent nearly every second of the last hour agonizing over the possible contents of his next vision. He desperately hoped the Powers That Be would have mercy on Cordelia without him having to go beg for that mercy—since he knew how unlikely they were to respond to begging. As he'd previously expressed, they weren't known for being a merciful bunch and they'd already given him far more than most in his position.

Could it be that they had now decided to take something away? Was this the price he had to pay for his continued survival? They couldn't be that cruel, could they?

He wasn't convinced they weren't. He wasn't convinced they cared at all.

The glaringly obvious solution stared Doyle right in the face, mocking him. It came in the memory of Lilah Morgan's haughty sneer… "Wolfram & Hart can stop this." Doyle declared, hating the putrid words as they left his mouth, but finding no other useful ones there. "I needa give 'em what they want."

"I second that." Angel backed Doyle up without hesitation. "Cordelia is more important than the visions—we can find a way to help people without them."

"Oh, _hell_ no!" Cordelia's angry voice sliced through the room, causing Doyle and the others to whirl around. She had just emerged from the bathroom with her short brown hair styled over half her face. One of her red-rimmed eyes was still perfectly visible, as well as the resentment that shimmered there. "No way are you handing Evil Incorporated your visions on a silver platter! In what universe does that sound like a good plan?!"

Doyle tilted his head at her in warning. "I'm not saying I wanna do it." He clarified, trying to keep his voice calmer than he felt. He needed to keep his head for her sake, no matter how furious—or terrified—he was. "But, we don't know what could happen next, Cordy. Sometimes the best play is to fold 'fore ya lose your damn shirt."

"I don't think it's my shirt we have to worry about." She joked bitterly, fingering her shield of hair. "You're scared for me—guess what? I'm scared, too. I'm not gonna lie and say everything's hunky dory—this hellacious acne is super gross and I'm definitely wishing I hadn't looked in the mirror, because that is an image that'll haunt me forever... but giving away the visions is not an option!"

"Cordelia does have a point." Wesley said carefully. "We should at least explore other avenues before allowing Wolfram & Hart to succeed—I have several more books I can consult back at the hotel. In the meantime, I think it behooves us to slay the creature from the last vision. Despite Wolfram & Hart's obvious meddling, we can't simply ignore the will of the Powers."

Doyle's pale eyes were glued to the face of his incredibly brave and stubborn girlfriend. Her head had dropped forward, encouraging her fluffy bob to keep her face mostly hidden—it was a very un-Cordelia-like movement. His Cordelia had never hidden her beautiful face in all the time he'd known her; she should never have to hide it.

Clenching and unclenching his jaw, Doyle silently wrestled with the idea of anything distracting from his main priority—which was Cordelia, and only Cordelia. Even so, he knew Wesley was right. Defying the Powers now, would get them less than nowhere. "There's a shop on fifth and something. Big ugly was there. So was a key—gold, like the coin. I'm assuming they're a matching set."

Wesley nodded his agreement even as his face gave away his increasing concern. He turned to the two other men in the room, gesturing toward the front door. "Angel, Gunn—"

"Don't gotta say it, boss. We're on it." Gunn said, bobbing his toward Angel and then moving toward the front door. He paused only to grab his homemade axe, which had been propped in the corner.

Angel followed at a slightly more reserved pace, sharing a commiserating look with Doyle as he passed. He didn't say a word, but Doyle could read the intent in his friend's eye. If there were a way to speak directly to the Powers, Angel would do it. For Cordelia's sake… and for Doyle's.


	6. That Vision Thing, Part 3

**6\. That Vision Thing, Part III**

She screamed.

And screamed.

And screeeaaamed!

It was the most horrifying sound Doyle had ever heard. Made so much worse by the fact that he couldn't get to her… because he himself, was trapped inside a box of fire—or at least, that's what it felt like. As he saw the man in his vision consumed by flames, he felt those same flames against his skin. But for all the pain the vision caused, when it finally came to an end Doyle knew he would not really be burned.

Cordelia, on the other hand…

In a way, when he'd seen her, he'd been relieved. As severe as the burns were, they were, at least, limited to her arms, rather than covering her entire body. That was, however, very small consolation.

Currently, she sat cringing in the armchair as Doyle vigilantly applied burn cream and icepacks to her right arm, as Fred did the same with the left. Cordelia had barely said a word since it happened, refusing to so much as look in Doyle's direction. The anger, pain and terror were pouring off her in waves—and he knew why she couldn't look him in the eye. It was because she didn't want to see the offer that still stood there. More importantly, she didn't want _him_ to see that she was wavering. Didn't want him to know that her bravery had been melted away by the invisible flames that had consumed her.

He had wanted to respect her wishes—it was her body, she deserved a choice in all this—but now he regretted being so compliant. If he'd done what he'd wanted to do in the first place, she wouldn't have had the skin nearly burned off her arms. She wouldn't have had to cry out in anguish. And he wouldn't now have to feel like it was his fault for not doing something to stop this sooner.

It was his fault regardless. The visions belonged to him; being close to him had made her the target of Wolfram & Hart's latest bid to sever Angel's connection to the Higher Powers. It wasn't the first time they'd tried. The first attempt—the demon, Vocah—had struck Doyle down directly, trapping him within a never-ending vision, very nearly ending his life.

Somehow that seemed like small potatoes compared to this.

Leaving Fred to apply the last of the icepacks, Doyle disappeared into the kitchen, where he dug through the bottom cabinets, searching for his secret stash of whiskey. He doubted it was as much of a secret as he thought, but Cordelia had left it there untouched. Cracking it open, he poured two generous glasses of the potent, amber liquid and returned, double-fisted, to the living room. One of the glasses was placed down in front of the green-skinned, horned demon slumped on the couch clutching an icepack of his very own.

"Thanks, Irish-cream cake." Lorne mumbled, as he continued to hold the ice in place and eagerly leaned forward to scoop up the stiff drink from the coffee table. "I may need more than one."

"That's a double." Doyle said, gesturing with the second drink in his hand.

"And it'll take at least a quadruple to expunge the evil lawyer from my bloodstream." Lorne complained, taking a hearty gulp of the whiskey.

The psychic demon had been called to the apartment by Doyle in order to see what Doyle couldn't—a solution, a clue, an answer. Instead, confirmation is what he got. Wolfram & Hart were the culprits—there was no question. Not that there ever really _was_ a question. But, Lorne had been able to validate Doyle's hunch beyond the shadow of a doubt. He had been reading Cordelia, not Doyle—a futile effort until Doyle was hit with his latest vision. And then everything became all too clear, courtesy of a feedback loop that had sent the psychic flying halfway across the room.

Doyle managed to stave off the frown that fought its way onto his face; he was trying to be an ounce as courageous as his girlfriend. Trying and failing.

He crossed back to where Cordelia sat sniffling, and he crouched down in front of her, extending the full glass of whiskey. "You should drink this, love." He coaxed her. She finally shifted her eyes in his direction. "For the pain."

For a moment she looked like she was going to object, but then she reconsidered, nodding ever so slightly. Her arms were immobilized by the mounds of pillows and icepacks, so he carefully raised the glass to her mouth and helped her take a sip. She did so, wrinkling her nose as the liquid burned its way down her throat, but then she nodded a second time and drank again.

Fred, who had been quietly kneeling at Cordelia's side, slowly got up and moved away. As painfully socially awkward as she had been all afternoon, she'd been a valuable asset in tending to Cordelia's wounds this evening. Even Clover had fully warmed to her, enthusiastically rushing to sit in Fred's lap as the girl settled on the couch beside Lorne.

Debating on whether or not to offer Cordelia more whiskey, Doyle sat back on his heels. He was grateful when he felt the glass lift from his hand and hover in the air beside her chair. "Thanks, Dennis." He said, addressing the helpful phantom, who was undoubtedly just as worried for Cordelia as Doyle himself.

"I hate this." Cordelia's voice came out hoarse, swollen from the extended bout of screaming.

"So, do I." Doyle agreed. "Which is why, we can't wait for Wesley and his books. When Angel comes back—he and I are gonna pay those lawyers a visit. Put an end to all this."

"They're gonna win." She sulked, her lips trembling every-so-slightly. She looked truly heartbroken by this knowledge. Truly defeated. "It's all my fault."

"That's not true, darlin'." Doyle corrected her, keeping his voice low and soothing. "I've never seen anyone fight as hard as you, but part o' fighting is retreating from a losing battle—living to fight another day."

"If this wasn't happening to me, you would never retreat—you'd let them kill you before you gave up your visions. Don't even try and deny it, Doyle." She stated accusingly. "They targeted me because they thought I was the weak link—you're just proving them right."

"There's nothing weak about ya, Cordy." He asserted, wondering how she could ever think such a thing. "Let's be clear, they're targeting me, not you. I might be willing to sacrifice myself for the mission, but I've never been willing to sacrifice _you_. So, yeah, call it _my_ weakness, call it what ya want—when it comes down to me choosing between you and the visions, I choose you. It's that simple. And ya heard Angel—he agrees."

"I appreciate that…" She said sadly, her head lolling to the side as the whiskey settled into her bones. "But you shouldn't have to choose."

He almost had to laugh at that statement. It was impossible not to hear those words and reflect on the time she'd said almost the exact opposite. Granted, those were very different circumstances. Still, it said a lot about how far she had come—how far _they_ had come. He simply couldn't imagine loving her any more than he did at that precise moment.

She was a truly remarkable woman and he was incredibly lucky that she was _his_ remarkable woman. There was no way he was going to let Wolfram  & Hart take her away from him.

Not today, Satan.

Not ever.

* * *

The door creaked open, causing the impeccably dressed brunette behind the large mahogany desk to look up with a start. Her slate-blue eyes widened with alarm as she identified the two figures currently darkening her doorway. "How—how did you get in here?"

"Oh, you mean, why didn't the vampire alarms go off?" Angel asked rhetorically, sauntering deeper into the office with his hands casually shoved inside his pockets. "Your colleague—Gavin, was it? He didn't seem to have a problem letting us in—I'd be careful, Lilah. I don't think he likes you very much."

Doyle entered the office a few steps behind Angel. He wasn't in the mood for beating around the bush. "Y'know why we're here. Let's just get on with it, yeah?"

Lilah's eyes shifted from Angel to Doyle, and she inspected the smaller man up and down as if looking for something specific. Only the slightest hint of curiosity registered on her otherwise impassive expression.

"What?" He demanded, strongly disliking the feeling of this snake-woman's eyes combing over his person.

"Oh, I'm just surprised to see you looking so well, that's all." She commented, as she sat back in her chair and began clicking the pen in her hand. "The visions can be such a _burden_ , can't they?"

Doyle's jaw clenched as she baited him, and he found himself lurching forward involuntarily, stopping only when he felt Angel's hand on his shoulder. It was tempting to ignore Angel's subtle warning, leap across the desk, grab this tedious creature by the shirt collar and shake her repeatedly. By all means, she probably deserved that, plus more. But regardless of her very evil nature, it had never been Doyle's style to rough up someone who couldn't fight back. And he probably shouldn't start now—who knows if he'd be able to stop. "You made a big mistake going after Cordelia, lady!" He growled, venting his fury through his lips rather than his fists.

"What he said." Angel added, keeping his hand on the shoulder of the incensed half-demon. "And if you don't undo what you did to her, you'll get worse than she did."

To Lilah's credit, she was a hell of an actress, because the perplexity that crossed her face looked genuine. "We didn't do anything to Cordelia… but color me intrigued." She tilted her head in faux-sympathy. "What's wrong with Little Miss Sunnydale? Bad hair day?"

"Y'know damn well what's wrong with her!" Doyle gritted through clenched teeth. "The boils, the burns. We traced the signal. We know the visions weren't sent by the Powers—they were sent by you!"

"Okay, got me there, Inspector. I hired the guy who sent the visions." Lilah agreed, holding her hands up in surrender. She then lowered them and leaned forward in her chair, speaking to Doyle as if he were a small child. "We sent those visions to _you_ , Mr. Doyle. Not her. You're the seer, after all."

The color drained out of Doyle's cheeks and his blood ran cold as he processed what Lilah was saying to him—what her words actually meant. And, Lilah, being highly skilled in the art of body language, could read him like an open book. "Wait, so… what you're saying is that your little _girlfriend_ was affected by the visions we sent?" She slowly rolled her chair back and stood up from behind the desk. "Fascinating—I mean, we assumed there'd be side-effects. With this kind of dark magic there always is, but not like this…"

Doyle felt his throat go dry and he tried desperately to swallow it away, but found that his larynx was paralyzed. Fortunately, Angel picked up the verbal slack. "You obviously did something _wrong,_ Lilah—you need to fix this. _Now_!"

A slow spiteful smile spread across Lilah's face, as she placed her hands down on the edge of her desk and leveled each of the men in front of her with a defiant glare. "As unprecedented as this little hiccup is—it changes nothing from my perspective. I want you to do a job, I don't care _why_ you do it."

"A job?" Angel echoed, letting go of Doyle, who had been shocked into stillness by the unexpected revelations Lilah had to offer.

"Mr. Doyle gets visions of people in trouble. You save those people." She expounded. "Isn't that your entire business model?"

"You want us to save someone?" Angel balked at the request, which was utterly ludicrous when considering who it had come from. Wolfram & Hart was into damning people, not saving them.

Actually, that wasn't entirely true. They did have a tendency to save evil people.

"The guy in the fiery prison cell." Doyle deduced, finally managing to find his voice again, now that the shock had settled and the rage had ebbed into a dull furious ache. "Ya want us to break him out, yeah?"

Wolfram & Hart had never wanted to take away his visions. Lilah had merely been toying with her future prey—leading Doyle down the wrong path in the maze, so he'd know she was the one who'd put him there. So he'd know just who to call when he needed to get out. The whole time, she had merely been laying the groundwork for what she'd been intending to do to _him_. Which meant…

Cordelia's involvement was either a freak accident, somehow caused by her close connection to Doyle. Or, it was the will of the Higher Powers. Maybe both. Either answer didn't sit well with Doyle; and neither one brought him any closer to finding a remedy.

"So our message was received, loud and clear." Lilah said, raising her index in the finger and angling it toward the vampire in the room. "I'm assuming you already got the keyhole and the key that opens it? You'll need those in order to enter the prison dimension—oh, and watch out for the guard. I hear he's pretty good at his job."

"Undo the spell first." Angel demanded, without so much as a blink. "I'm not doing anything for you until I know Cordelia's okay."

"Um… no, that's not how this works." Lilah sassed back at him. "You see, _you_ free my wrongfully imprisoned client, and then—and _only_ then—do you receive compensation. In this case, we'll remove our mystical-wiretap."

"And that'll fix her?" Doyle asked, swallowing anxiously.

Lilah's eyes smoothly slid in Doyle's direction and a wave of synthetic sympathy accompanied them. "Not so fun to have a trophy girlfriend who's lost the shine, huh?"

Doyle felt a sudden spike in his blood pressure and then he did it—he morphed into his demon form and glared at Lilah through his blazing red demon eyes. While he assumed she had a complete dossier on his Brachen heritage, he was betting none of her files said anything about his fiery Irish temper.

Taken by surprise, she stumbled back a step and for one brief moment, she actually looked authentically fearful. "What we've done will be undone when the job's complete." She replied hastily, her voice losing some of the impenetrable confidence she'd exhibited up until that point. "That's the deal."

"You'd better hope it works, Lilah." Angel warned from his place beside Doyle. "If it doesn't… we're holding you personally responsible."

* * *

Lifting his head from the pages of his musty old book, Wesley rubbed vigorously at his tired eyes. Across the apartment, he could see Doyle leaning in the doorway to the bedroom. Like a sentry, he'd barely moved from the spot since he and Angel had returned from Wolfram & Hart. Mercifully, Cordelia was fast asleep inside the room. Wesley guessed it had more than a little to do with the whiskey Doyle had plied her with earlier. And it was a blessing, considering the fairly serious nature of her burns. If not for the underlying mystical cause, she would likely be in a hospital bed rather than her own. As it was, they'd made her as comfortable as possible, and now it seemed, the rest was up to Angel… and Lilah Morgan, unfortunately.

Although, Wesley had decidedly more faith in Angel.

The fearless champion had used the key and the coin—which had turned out to be a keyhole to another dimension—to embark on Lilah's assigned task. Now, all the rest of them could do was wait. And hope. Praying wasn't out of the question, for that matter.

A light snore caught Wesley's attention, and he turned his head to see that Gunn had fallen asleep in one of the armchairs. The big man had stuck around to provide back up when needed. Once Angel finished freeing the man from the prison of flames, he would need a hand at the delivery point—and Doyle clearly wasn't going to leave Cordelia's side a second time.

Twisting in the opposite direction, he saw Fred dozing in the other chair. _It was nice of her to stay_ , Wesley thought. Earlier in the evening, Gunn had offered to take Fred back to the hotel, but she'd refused, choosing to stay and help Doyle and Dennis with the ongoing nursing duties. It showed real progress. She cared enough to be a part of this.

Adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, Wesley resituated the book on his lap and searched for the paragraph where he had left off.

"Afraid the big guy won't come through?" The question had been posed by the lanky, green demon occupying the other end of the couch. He had also been silently observing Doyle's vigil. He met Wesley's confused look with a gesture toward the dense book in his lap. "Looking for a Plan B?"

Closing the book, Wesley carefully kept his thumb in between the pages as a bookmark. "I am quite confident Angel will succeed in his mission." Wesley explained with a deep exhale. "... which is quite the problem. It seems the artifacts recovered—as well as their protectors—were aligned with the side of good. The man being freed, from what I can only presume is _hell_ , is undoubtedly there for a reason."

"Well, you can't say Wolfram & Hart aren't consistent." Lorne responded, his eyes drifting back toward the half-demon in the bedroom doorway. "Making someone _good_ suffer, all in the name of evil. They should really put that on their business cards."

Wesley's eyes joined that of the demon beside him. He reflected on the curious information Doyle and Angel had relayed about Cordelia's affliction, trying to understand what he was missing. "If Lilah is to be believed—which is admittedly questionable—there was never a hex placed on Cordelia herself—the mystical wiretap was placed only on Doyle." The Englishman shook his head in bemusement. "There's simply no logical explanation for why she'd become entangled in all this." A pregnant pause from the usually loquacious demon seated on the next cushion over, caused Wesley to turn his attention back toward Lorne. "Unless I'm mistaken… which I rather get the impression I am."

Lorne let out a long sigh, leaning his weight against the arm of the sofa and crossing his legs as if he was about to tell a lengthy tale. "It actually makes a lot of sense from where I'm sitting." He waved his green-tinged fingers in Doyle's general direction. "Those two kids have a unique bond, in a my-aura's-connected-to-your-aura kinda way. One of a kind, really. And, if that wasn't enough, they also happen to be madly in love. That's like upping the wattage in Times Square, my friend—if you think about it like that, something like this was bound to happen eventually."

"Something like this?" Wesley repeated questioningly.

"Their cosmic energy getting tied up tighter than a sailor's knot." Lorne clarified. "See, astral ties aren't much different than physical ones. Whatever evil mojo Wolfram & Hart used to tap into Doyle's wires, must have crossed them as well."

"So, you're saying, all this happened because Cordelia and Doyle are what… soul mates?" Wesley asked with surprise.

" _Please_ , that term was invented by romance novelists." Lorne scoffed at the inadequate term. "It only exists in the aisles of your local library or dribbling from the mouths of those painfully attractive young people on the WB network. And it's a misnomer—a soul may allow you the capacity to love, but it has very little to do with who you fall in love with. No, the type of bond I'm talking about isn't in any book, Professor smarty-pants."

Wesley shook his head, the web of confusion only increasing with Lorne's vague explanation. "And this otherworldly bond between them simply _exists_ for no reason? Having nothing to do with love?"

"Oh, it's there for a reason." Lorne confirmed. "And love probably does have something to do with it. But, I'm really not at liberty to spill these proverbial beans—just trust me, it's not something that can be severed. I doubt even death would do the trick. We just have to hope it can be untangled as easily as it was tangled in the first place, or else Angel's little trip to hell might be all for nothing."

* * *

 **A/N - You got a bonus chapter this week, because I won't be around to post next week. Final chapter of "That Vision Thing" will go up as soon as I'm back!**


	7. That Vision Thing, Part 4

**7\. That Vision Thing, Part IV**

"No change?" Angel asked as he peered through the doorway at Cordelia, who was awake now and clearly uncomfortable. Her faithful feline companion was nestled beside her on the bed, between all the extra pillows and icepacks that had been packed around her injured arms. Fred hovered by Cordelia's bedside helping her sip water through a straw—or rather helping _Dennis_ help her. Meanwhile, the other resident of the apartment was pacing frantically through the dining room, his nervous energy radiating in all directions.

"No change." Wesley confirmed, having laid his books aside and moved into the space that divided the dining area from the living room. "Can we be certain Wolfram & Hart lifted the spell?"

"Maybe that dude with the brains sticking outta his head was just putting on a good show." Gunn reasoned from his place at the head of the dining room table. "We can't _see_ magic."

"I can." Lorne offered glumly. He sat beside Gunn at the table, green head in green hands. "The great big whoosh of dark mystical energy has pulled an Elvis." He lifted his head to clarify. "That means it left the building, not that it ate all the donuts."

"Maybe it's time to take her to the hospital." Angel suggested, glancing at Cordelia just as she winced in pain. Fred worriedly moved away from the bed and headed toward the doorway, promising something stronger than water when she returned.

"And what happens next time I have a vision, huh?!" Doyle snapped, finally coming to a halt in the middle of the dining room and bracing himself against one of the chairs. His hands wrapped so tightly around the wood that his knuckles were visibly white.

"The spell is broken; she probably won't exhibit further symptoms." Wesley answered cautiously.

"Probably isn't good enough!" Doyle shouted angrily. "I'm not willing to gamble with her life or limbs—it's time to go directly to the source. The Powers can tell us if this is over, and they can stop it if it's not. Angel, man, I'm not sure I can do it myself. I need ya to come with me to the—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Just hold it right there, little buddy, before you say something that will get us all fricasseed where we stand!" Lorne interrupted, jumping out of his seat and waving his arms wildly in objection. "The thing you were about to propose—it's not an option that should be taken without exhausting _all_ other possible options. You risk being turned into an amphibian just for _suggesting_ it—much less actually going there, which would probably result in multiple broken appendages and a whole lot of dead amphibian friends."

"Look at us, man. We're exhausted!" Doyle argued back. "Cordy's suffering in there and I'm not hearing any other options!"

"We need to twist the wires again."

"Excuse me?" Doyle responded.

The odd suggestion had come from an unfamiliar source—the waif-like brunette who had come to stand beside Angel in the bedroom doorway. Fred looked a little embarrassed as five sets of male eyes simultaneously swung in her direction. "I-I wasn't eavesdropping or anything, but I kinda heard Lorne and Wesley talking earlier… a-and it got me thinkin'. The primary target of the spell was separated from the secondary-effects due to an anomalous connection. That may be why the anti-spell failed to cure Cordelia—it only reached the primary, not the ancillary subject."

"There an English version of that?" Gunn wondered skeptically.

"Of course! The problem is that the visions and the side-effects are not in the same place." Wesley translated, nodding his head excitedly. "Doyle was successfully released from the spell, but Cordelia was not."

"I might've been over-explaining it." Fred added sheepishly.

"Yeah, I get it." Doyle said with guarded hope. "We needa figure out how to transfer Cordy's side-effects over to me."

"Or, transfer the visions to Cordelia." Wesley continued a little less certainly, as he tried to remember if he'd read anything about such a thing. "If Fred's hypothesis is correct, either way would work."

"Exactly. It's the mixture of the two properties that's key—when combined, the spell and anti-spell should cancel each other out, leaving the subject whole." Fred proudly confirmed.

"Great." Gunn replied dully. "Anyone know how to do either of those things?"

A sea of faces fell in unison. The unspoken answer was a resounding "no."

Wesley cleared his throat several times and then scurried over to his pile of books, sorting through the volumes and mumbling over his shoulder. "Well, um… I may have read something earlier…"

"The side-effects are just that—side-effects… of a spell that technically no longer exists." Angel thought out loud, shooting an apologetic glance in Doyle's direction. "I'm not saying it would be impossible, but probably pretty close."

Doyle nodded solemnly. He hadn't let his hopes get too high; it was easy enough to reverse to his earlier prognosis. "That brings us back to Plan A, yeah? We talk directly to the Powers."

"Trust me, Captain Froglegs, that's not gonna go over well." Lorne reiterated.

"Here!" Wesley shouted, tapping his finger repeatedly into a page of one of his books. "I knew I'd skimmed past this earlier—there's a reference to a seer in the sixteen-hundreds who was able to pass her visions to another girl!"

"So, transferring the visions _is_ possible!" Fred enthused, clasping her hands together. "If we were making a pro and con list, that would be a pro—is there a white board around here, by any chance?"

"I know it's been done before." Doyle responded with far less enthusiasm. The tension in his temples was growing exponentially with each tick of the clock. He closed his eyes and tried to massage away the ache. "What I'm lacking is the _how_."

" _How_ seems pretty important." Gunn muttered as an aside.

"Unfortunately, that part's been omitted." Wesley lamented, flipping to the next page in the book and squinting down at the tiny print. "Oh." His expression crumpled farther. "Dear."

"Oh?" Angel prompted.

"Well… it appears that _death_ may have been a contributing factor." Wesley announced, continuing to read the remainder of the dense paragraph. "The visions were transferred mere moments before the seer was… burned at the stake."

"That would be a _really_ big con." Fred squeaked, her mouth twisting into a frown.

While everyone in the room had been intensely focused on Wesley and his book, Lorne had quietly circled the dining table. He came to a stop just behind Doyle and lightly tapped the other demon on the shoulder. "Hey, little buddy, mind if I have a quick word?" He requested, nodding toward the kitchen at their left. "Why don't we step into my office?"

Doyle rolled his eyes, but then nodded begrudgingly, following Lorne's lead toward the much smaller table nestled in the back of the apartment in a tiny nook off the kitchen. Doyle took a seat, leaning one elbow on the tabletop. "Ya want me to sing?"

"Hold your pipes, Bono-lite. I only brought you back here so we could speak freely." Lorne took the chair opposite Doyle and leaned forward excitedly. "Everyone knows this happened to Cordelia because of her connection to you. The part I left out when talking to your comrades out there is that it's not just the connection from _this_ timeline that's caused the big snafu, it's her connection from the _other_ one, too."

"Crossed wires." Doyle harrumphed. "You're sayin' this happened 'cause I gave her the visions in that other place."

"Exactly," Lorne confirmed. "Which means you already know how to pass them to her. You've done it before."

"Not in this lifetime, bud." Doyle reminded the other demon.

"Okay, but someone passed a vision to you in _this_ timeline, right? Miss Cordelia herself, if I'm not mistaken—I mean, not _her_ her, but the _other_ her." Lorne clarified with a flutter of his hand. "Anyway, that moment's the key to all of this."

Doyle's brow furrowed as he recalled the incident Lorne was referring to. It felt so long ago—the fateful night he was trapped in the belly of _Quintessa_ , destined to die. The night he was saved by—

"A kiss?" Doyle said doubtfully. "Not to scandalize ya or nothing, but Cordy and I have been doing that for a while now and I've never once passed her the visions."

"Not for lack of trying, I'm sure." Lorne joked, earning nothing but an extended glare from Doyle. "Geez, where's the sense of humor today?"

"Buried under Cordy's face full o' boils." He gritted in reply. "If y'know how I can help her, then let's get to it, yeah?"

"Alright, alright." Lorne complied, holding up his hands in a peacekeeping gesture. "As you've established, a simple exchange of bodily fluids won't do the trick. Your visions are a rare and precious gift; giving that gift away requires something powerful, something not even the Higher Powers can control."

Doyle's waning patience was growing ever thinner. He squirmed in his seat. "There aren't any spells that powerful, pal."

"No, no. Nothing as pedestrian as a spell. More like… a very specific set of cosmic ingredients." Lorne mused, sitting back in his chair to ponder the riddle more carefully. He rolled his index finger in a circle, prompting Doyle to aid in the pondering. "What else happened that night aside from the kiss? What else did that other Cordelia do?"

It was a simple question with a seemingly simple answer. Yet it gave Doyle pause.

The truth was, he knew a lot more about that other Cordelia than he should. He had seen fragments of her life; felt some of her feelings. But he had experienced all that through the lens of the vision she had shared. In reality, he'd only met her for the briefest of moments. And in that time, she'd done little more than kiss him and die.

"She saved my life." He responded with a shrug. "Sacrificed herself in my place."

"Bingo!" Lorne exclaimed, raising his index finger into the air as if ringing an invisible bell. "It wasn't just a kiss—it was a selfless act of love!"

Doyle slowly sat back in his chair, considering Lorne's deduction. "That means I probably kissed the daylights outta Cordy in that other timeline, yeah?"

Despite the circumstances, Doyle had to smile at that thought. Even when he'd been taken out of the game, he'd gone out in style. A kiss before dying. It was almost poetic.

"You've always had a real flare for the dramatic." Lorne agreed, pounding his fist lightly on the tabletop. "You loved Cordelia then, you love her now. Don't you see? _Love's_ the only thing powerful enough to bypass the rules. And, the selfless part… I'm guessing that's just a failsafe to keep the visions from being passed around willy-nilly."

"Y'think it'd work under these circumstances?" Doyle wondered, trying to come to terms with the idea that he could actually do this—he could actually give Cordelia his visions.

"Passing Cordelia your visions in order to heal her should classify as a selfless act." Lorne surmised. "That's the good news."

"What's the bad news?" Doyle asked, not missing the fact that good news always came with the opposite.

Lorne hesitated, looking rather regretful. "The only problem I can see… well, she probably won't be able to pass them back to you. At least, not right away."

"I'd say that's a big freaking problem!" Doyle scoffed. "The visions aren't just headaches with pictures—they're destructive. The only thing keeping me from any serious permanent damage is my demon DNA. Cordy doesn't have that—the visions'll kill her."

"Eventually… maybe." Lorne allowed. "But they won't kill her nearly as quickly as your next vision might. Or the one after that. Or the one after _that_ —you see where I'm going with this."

"This isn't news to me! Every second I do nothing, I'm putting her at risk." Doyle aggressively rubbed at the stress knot that had once again formed on the side of his head. "But what if it's like Wes said—what if it's already over, huh? I give her my visions, I could just be making things worse for her."

"Worse than the hideous scars she'll have to live with if we can't undo the spell? Not sure she'll see it that way." Lorne commented.

" _I_ see it that way." Doyle asserted, shaking his head adamantly. "I can't do it to her, man. Not on purpose. Not without at least _trying_ to appeal to the Powers first."

"Well, sure, you still have the option of probable transmutation and dismemberment." Lorne remarked sarcastically. "But, I think we both know that's a fool's errand. They probably won't help her, and they'll _definitely_ punish you for asking."

"Or they could intervene." Doyle insisted stubbornly. "They could fix everything—make it right."

"Who's to say they haven't already done that?" Lorne countered, gently placing a hand on Doyle's arm. "Face it, little buddy—this might not be the 'big cosmic woops' you think it is. Odds are… those wires got crossed for a reason."

Doyle blew out a long stream of air. Lorne's words of wisdom struck a chord, sounding a little too much like the truth for Doyle to continue arguing. Further objections lingered on his tongue, even as the fight drained from his body.

Running a hand over his face, Doyle let it drop away, revealing a pair of pale green eyes drowned in exhausted pools of pink. "We're done here." He declared, rising from his chair.

"Does that mean you've made your decision?" Lorne inquired. "Should I be investing in a lifetime supply of Lilly pads?"

"It's not my decision to make." Doyle responded, crossing to the small space and disappearing through the doorway. "It never was."

Lorne smiled into the emptiness around him. "Atta boy."

* * *

Tap. Tap. Tappity. Tap.

Doyle's fingers danced uneasily along the edge of the windowsill as he peered out through the panes of glass into the yard beyond. He cleared his throat and twisted his body around, resting his backside against the wooden ledge.

"Did ya hear what I said, Princess?" He asked, ending the long, stilted silence that had fell over the room.

Her expression was unreadable. Blurred by the angry-looking boils marring the side of her face. Distorted by the pain of the blistered and burned skin that covered the length of her arms. The last few hours of torment had visibly taken their toll on her. And right now, that was all Doyle could see.

"I heard you." Cordelia assured him in a voice roughened by exhaustion, but otherwise solid. Her head lolled in his direction. "You can make this go away." An additional blink and then she stated her choice in no uncertain terms. "So go ahead and visionize me already."

"That's it? No questions? Or concerns about the no-return policy?" Doyle asked skeptically. "How 'bout a pro-and-con list? I think Fred could help with that bit, yeah?"

Cordelia's eyes fluttered heavenward before she quickly scanned the scorched flesh of her arms. Then, she gingerly lifted her left hand, and brushed her fingers over the large boils on her cheek. As soon as her fingertips landed on the bumpy flesh, she grimaced. "Pros—I'll get my face back, and my life back, and this'll _end_." She summed things up, easing her arm back down into the pile of pillows. "I've watched you deal with the visions for years, Doyle. I know all I need to know about the cons."

"That's not entirely accurate." He corrected her, pushing himself away from the window and sauntering closer to where she lay on their bed, bundled in ice and pillows. "For one thing—the visions can be just as painful as those physical wounds o' yours. Maybe even more so."

"I doubt that." She rasped back at him.

"You'd be surprised." He continued, edging himself down on the side of the bed. "You're thinking the toughest part will be the tsunami-sized migraines, but those'll pass." He picked at a ball of fluff on the edge of the comforter, rolling it around between his fingers. He wanted to take her hand, but was afraid to disrupt her precarious set up. "Your pain'll feel like nothing compared to the pain ya experience in others. And the evil—that's the part that's hardest to shake. Ya carry that around, day in and day out. It colors how ya see the world."

"And my other choice is to walk around looking like the elephant woman?" She scoffed. "I'll take the emotional turmoil, thanks."

"Ya say that now…" Doyle hedged, keeping his eyes averted. "But the visions will change ya."

"Let me guess, I'll become a day-drinker with really bad taste in clothes?" She answered reproachfully.

"Hey." Doyle responded, frowning at her cheap shot.

"Sorry." She replied, taking the bite out of her tone. She closed her eyes to collect herself and then reopened them and started again. "I didn't mean that. I'm just… it really hurts, okay? I'm not just doing this for shallow reasons—or, maybe I am, but so what? We both want me to be normal-Cordelia again." She pled her case in a smaller voice than he was accustomed to hearing. "I can still be _me_ with the visions—I can't with Mount Vesuvius covering half my face and the skin melted off my arms."

Lorne had been right—of course, he had. No matter how much Cordelia had grown up; no matter how much meaning and purpose she had found in her life… she still wanted to be beautiful. He couldn't begrudge her that; he enjoyed her physical beauty as well. He just didn't think it was the best reason to sign up for a life altering calling from the Higher Powers.

Especially not one that could potentially destroy her.

"I still think I should check with the Powers 'fore we go through with all this." Doyle contended, gesturing with his right index finger for emphasis.

The smooth side of Cordelia's face wrinkled up in disapproval, which must have been a challenge considering the other half of her complexion. "That's not an actual option, Doyle." She debated. "A demon's one thing, but I draw the line at dating amphibians."

"Who told ya 'bout that?" He asked with a scowl.

She ignored his question, wiggling her fingers ever so slightly to catch the edge of his shirtsleeve. "Is it…? I mean… Do you think I can't do the job? That I'm not strong enough?" She wondered, in the voice she reserved for only her most vulnerable of moments.

It was a voice that broke his heart. As was the sentiment attached.

Carefully shifting his body to accommodate her position, he brought one knee up onto the bed and lightly placed his hand over her unblemished fingers. He could see the swirls of uncertainty in her eyes, and, in turn, he could show her the sincerity in his own. "There's no one I'd trust with this job more than you, darlin'." He swore. "You're the strongest person I know—but you're not a demon, Cordy. Ya won't be able to heal from the damage o' the visions the way I can." He paused, swallowing back the thickness that had accumulated in his throat. "You're asking me to knowingly hand ya a death sentence."

He wanted so badly to be her hero. To valiantly save the day and make everything all better. But he couldn't do that. He couldn't take her pain away, he could only offer her a different kind of pain in its place. A pain that came with both a shortened lifespan and a huge dose of responsibility.

"You did it before." Cordelia's soft voice permeated his internal emotional battle. He could see she wasn't being accusatory; she was simply stating the facts as he had once explained them to her. "In that other timeline, before you died you gave me the visions, right? And I lived long enough to become a time-traveler… _with_ fabulous hair." She reasoned, seeding in a dash of levity. "They're not an instant death sentence, Doyle. We could figure out how to switch them back at some point."

"We can't bet on that." Doyle warned. "If we go through with this, you'll be Angel's connection to the Powers from this day forward... and I'll just be the guy you're shacking up with."

"I promise, I can do what needs to be done for as long as I'm needed." She vowed, maneuvering her fingers so she could squeeze his hand reassuringly. "Plus, you'll be here to show me the ropes… Now, _please,_ Doyle. Fix me."

"Yeah. Okay." He whispered, leaning closer and tenderly sweeping some of the hair back, away from her face. He caressed her skin with his thumb, ignoring the angry boils—he wasn't looking at them. He was looking at the breathtaking woman underneath. The bravest woman he'd ever known. And the one he loved with all his heart.

He hoped he wasn't making a terrible mistake. He hoped he wouldn't lose her.

"What are you doing?" She objected, her eyes darting in the direction where his fingers made contact with her unclean skin. "I thought…"

"I'm doing what ya asked." He whispered as he lovingly gazed down at her. Cupping her face with both hands, he slowly brought his lips down to meet hers.

"Oh." She whispered as their lips touched and began to move together.

Softly at first, and then a little more assertively, he kissed her, letting every ounce of love and compassion pour out of himself and into her. Silently he wished that her pain would subside, and she'd be left clean and whole and unmarked, just as she'd been before all this started. At first, he wasn't sure he was doing it right—he didn't feel anything aside from their usual sparks.

Then it changed. There was a crackle of energy as he unconsciously let go of something inside himself that he hadn't readily known was there. It was the strangest sensation. Mostly pleasurable, with a peculiar sort of emptiness left behind—as if some tiny fragment of his soul had been displaced.

His visions had become her visions.

And he was… just Doyle.

As their lips parted and he pulled back, Doyle got visual confirmation that everything had gone according to plan. He pulled back even further, more excitedly now—running his fingers gently over the smooth, flawless skin of her arm. And lastly, he reached forward and slid her shirt up, just above her belly-button, revealing that even the claw-marks had abated.

"It worked!" She said in awe, her face immediately lighting up. The tears of sorrow in her eyes instantly morphed into the joyful variety. "You really did it!" She shouted breathlessly, holding her arms out for further inspection. Confirming that she'd been fully restored, she threw her arms around Doyle's neck and squeezed tightly. "I can't believe it. Thank you! _Thank_ _you_!"

He returned the embrace, letting himself breathe a small sigh of relief, despite his lingering reservations. "And I didn't even have to turn into a frog to do it," he wisecracked, covering for the doubts that still churned deep in his stomach.

Cordelia laughed heartily as she untangled herself from his arms and poked him in the chest. "No, silly, it's the frog that turns into a Prince." She corrected him. "Or, in this case, the side-show freak that turned into a Princess. Voila!"

"Yeah, I always get that wrong." He said with a wry chuckle. Never mind that he hadn't actually been referring to the fairy tale.

Tossing the mounds of pillows and melting icepacks out of the way, Cordelia bounded out of the bed and ran straight for the mirror on the wall. She preened happily in front of the reflective surface. "See, Doyle, aren't you relieved that you'll be taking _this_ perfect physical specimen out to dinner on Friday night?" She twirled around, her smile lighting up the room. "By the way, that wasn't a figure of speech—I expect a major date-night after this ordeal. With all the fringe benefits."

Doyle remained seated on the side of the bed, a grin forcing its way onto his lips. Her jubilant mood was infectious; making the agony from mere moments earlier seem like a distant memory.

He'd just have to enjoy it while it lasted, and brace himself for the eventual comedown.

"It's a date, Princess."

* * *

Down in the deepest depths of his own dimension, the demon known as Skip sat holding a hot water bottle to his head. He had taken the beating he was destined to take. And it was every bit as satisfying as he'd imagined.

 _It is done, Master,_ he thought to himself. _Right on schedule._

When addressing his Master, thoughts were enough. His Master always knew. His Master always heard.

There had been much displeasure when Phase One of the plan had been thwarted. Someone had intervened at a critical juncture, thereby altering the entire course of events from that point forward. Undoubtedly, it was _them_. Some way, some how, they had managed to find themselves a champion powerful enough to end the cycle before it could even begin.

Without Phase One, Phase Two would have been pointless. It was a disaster of epic proportions—eons of preparation spoiled in a single moment.

Plans unmade. Prophecies undone. A world without end…

Skip had thought himself doomed to spend eternity trapped in the role of glorified prison guard. Never to lay eyes upon His Master. Punishment for a failure he'd played no part in.

But then from the ashes of failure, a Phoenix of opportunity emerged. The pieces aligned just so, and with His Master's subtle guidance, all the dominos fell exactly where they were supposed to fall.

Phase One _and_ Phase Two were completed in one broad stroke.

That which had once been unwritten, reverted to form. The ancient prophecy was now closer to being fulfilled than ever before.

Now all Skip had to do was _wait_.


	8. That Old Gang of Mine, Part 1

**8\. That Old Gang of Mine, Part I**

The glow of a cigarette butt was the only visible light in the nearly pitch-black alley, and if it hadn't been for the fact that both occupants of said alley had demon-blood running through their veins, they would have been bumping into walls and tripping over garbage bags. As it was, they stood several feet apart and could see each other clearly enough for the type of business they were conducting.

"Been a long time." The man with the cigarette said to the other. He had a Northeast accent—not New York, but definitely south of Boston—and he was dressed to impress. Three-piece suit, fedora, well-shined shoes, the whole nine yards. If it weren't for his unshaven face and the length of his hair, which brushed against his shirt collar, he could have been a gangster from the forties. "Can't say I'm thrilled about playing catch up here, Doyle. I might not be personally looking to take a chunk outta you, but I know plenty of fellas who are… In fact, I could make bank if I detached your head from your body and auctioned it off to the highest bidder."

Doyle didn't blink, didn't hesitate to talk back to the shady character who'd essentially just threatened his life—mostly because he knew the threats were empty. This guy, while not the most upstanding citizen of Los Angeles County, was not capable of the level of violence he'd just implied. Sure, he was a demon, but he looked every bit as human as Doyle did at the moment. And if Doyle had thought him truly dangerous, he'd never have agreed to meet him alone in a dark alley.

"You're not gonna do that." Doyle replied smoothly, as he leaned casually against the brick wall that made up one side of the narrow space.

"But, I could." The other man said, using his cigarette as a pointer. "Or rather… he can." Nodding to his left, he indicated a lumbering figure who stepped a little further out of the shadows. Doyle couldn't see much aside from the demon's size and a prominent red horn growing out of its forehead and winding all the way down its back —it was a good guess that demon was _very_ much capable of the level of violence that had previously been implied.

"Ya brought an enforcer?!" Doyle whined, dropping his casual stance as well as his overly cool demeanor. "Why'd ya go and do a thing like that, Penny? I thought we had an understanding!"

Penny was the guy's nickname, earned at the tables long ago. Doyle couldn't recall his given name, and doubted that he'd ever known it in the first place.

"That's close enough, Larch." Penny called over to the large demon in the shadows, he turned back to Doyle with an apologetic grin. "Hey, can't be too careful these days. Be honest—is that vamp pal of yours lurking around here or what?"

"What do _you_ think?" Doyle deflected the question, hoping Penny would think that Angel was somewhere within shouting distance, although he was actually back at the hotel, where Doyle had left him. As was Gunn, and Wesley and anyone else who would've been able to help Doyle out of a jam.

Penny took the bait, his eyes darting around nervously before they finally landed on Doyle. He too lost some of his bravado, puffing liberally on the end of his cigarette. "What is it you wanted?"

"Information—of the instructional variety." Doyle replied, shifting his weight so he could lean one arm against the bricks. "I'm looking to redirect some messages from the higher plane. Think ya can ask around?"

Taking another drag off his cigarette, Penny regarded Doyle curiously. "That depends. Is this _hypothetical_ individual willing to sell his eyeballs?"

"No." Doyle said flatly, trying not to lose his patience. "But, if it's compensation you're worried about—I'm good for it."

"Where have I heard that one before?" Penny remarked doubtfully.

"Things are different now." Doyle promised. "I don't leave debts hanging over my head—wasn't good for my health."

"Don't imagine it would be." Penny replied thoughtfully, letting the smoke filter out through his lips along with the words. "I might know a guy who knows a thing or two about those visions of yours. But it'll cost you and I doubt he's gonna find the answers ya wanna hear. If you were saddled with that messenger gig, it's yours until the bosses upstairs decide otherwise. Only way out is death—so I've heard."

"Ya heard wrong." Doyle said plainly.

"Alright, I misspoke." Penny conceded, tossing his cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with the tip of his fancy shoe. "You might be able to pawn it off on someone you love… but who's gonna go and do a shitty thing like that?"

* * *

 _Thunk!_

"I thought you said you wanted to help me." Cordelia griped as she watched her previously spotless desk become cluttered with multiple piles of paperwork and file folders. "This isn't helping. _This_ is the opposite of helping."

"What d'ya mean?" Doyle objected, plopping another stack of folders onto an empty corner of her desk. "I'm re-doing the entire filing system—it's gonna be great! No one will ever have to bug ya 'bout a missing file again." His enthusiasm seemed a bit much for the task at hand.

She leaned back in her chair with a hopeless sigh, watching as he proceeded to disorganize things that had previously been organized. "I like my system the way it is." She grumped. "I know why you're doing this—you can just stop, okay?"

"I thought it'd be nice." He said, pausing from his work to flash her a proud grin, dimples and all. "In fact, why don't ya go relax for a bit? Put your feet up. I can bring ya some o' that tea ya like, yeah?"

Cordelia rolled her eyes as she rose from her chair, and placed a hand on her hip. "Stop with the indentured servant act!" She ordered him. "I'm totally fine. And completely vision-free, if you hadn't noticed."

The grin fell from his lips as she called him on his transparently guilt-ridden behavior. He mumbled a reply, more to himself than to her. "For now."

"Maybe it didn't work." She reasoned, arching a challenging brow in his direction. "Or _maybe_ I gave the visions back to you last night." Her arched brow turned slightly more mischievous as she reminded him of their previous night's activities. "I mean… I was feeling pretty selfless there for a while."

Doyle's eyes widened and then he glanced around the office space to see if any of his coworkers were within earshot. Thankfully, they all seemed to be conducting business elsewhere this morning. Even Wesley, who usually had to be pried away from the books in his office, was nowhere to be found. "Ah… _ahem_. While I commend your efforts, Princess—think it's fair to say that the next message for Angel, won't be coming to me."

Shaking her head in mild frustration, Cordelia paced away to the front counter. "So what? You want me to start wearing a helmet?" She sassed at him over her shoulder, as she began sorting through the day's mail. "I'll be okay… You wanna worry about someone? Why don't you start with the girl outside, talking to a shrub?" She followed up her comment with a glance toward the glass windows that revealed Fred wandering aimlessly around the rear courtyard.

Sauntering up beside Cordelia, Doyle leaned his elbows on the countertop and directed his attention to the girl in question. "One of us should probably interrupt. I doubt that shrub's gonna convince her to take a spin around the block." He joked, turning to meet Cordelia's pointed stare. "And I get the impression that someone should be _me_ , yeah?"

"I'm vision-girl now." Cordelia proclaimed with a teasing smile. "You need to find some other way to make yourself useful—a way that _isn't_ ruining my entire filing system!"

That comment earned her a frown from Doyle, who clearly didn't appreciate his displacement in the office hierarchy. He looked like he wanted to argue the point, but was interrupted by the sharp ring of the phone. He swiftly lifted the receiver, grinning sheepishly at Cordelia as he began his usual butchery of their standard company greeting. "Angel Investigations, we hope you're helpless—no, that's not right—oh, hey Angel. Yeah, I was just helping Cordy 'round the office. What's up?"

Cordelia watched the expression on Doyle's face change as he absorbed whatever Angel told him from the other end of the line. "That's unfortunate." He mused, his eyebrows rising sky high. "Very unfortunate." He listened for another minute before nodding, despite the fact that the person on the other end of the line couldn't see him doing so. "Yeah, I agree—I'll meet ya over there."

As he hung up the phone, Cordelia stared at him questioningly. "What's up?"

"Seems we got ourselves a new case." Doyle replied, turning away from the counter to grab his trusty brown leather jacket from the coat rack in the corner. He shrugged into it as he continued to explain. "It's Merl—he's dead. Murdered right there in his own lair. Angel said it's a pretty brutal scene."

"Geez. Guess that explains why he's been such a flake lately." Cordelia responded. "Sorry. I know he was your friend."

"I wouldn't call him a _friend_." Doyle admitted, straightening out his collar and then returning to the place where Cordelia still stood. "I certainly didn't hate the guy. And as sources went, he was one o' the safest bets. Hate to say it, but that's probably what killed him."

Glancing over at the pile of mayhem that now covered her desk, Cordelia scowled. "Sure, _now_ you have something else to do."

"I'll finish that when I come back." Doyle promised, planting a kiss on her cheek and then hurrying off to the front door. "Oh, ya mind paging Gunn and telling him to meet us over at Merl's place? If something's tearing demons apart I'd feel safer with him at my back."

"Paging the big Gunn." Cordelia punned, giving Doyle a mocking salute.

As she picked up the receiver and her fingers plodded across the numbers, she found her eyes being drawn back to Fred in the courtyard, who now appeared to be laughing uproariously.

Perhaps, that shouldn't wait for Doyle's return.

* * *

The carpet beneath their feet was shoddy. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering and sputtering. Doyle walked side-by-side with Angel, doing his best not to inhale too deeply. This wasn't the most high-end of living situations, which wasn't surprising since the person they were visiting was an associate of Merl's—that made it unlikely that he was a _person_ at all.

"This should be it." Angel said, pausing at one of the doors, which bore only the faintest trace of the number that should've hung there. He knocked for both of them, and then they waited. Each of them had their hands sunk into their pockets, taking in their unappealing surroundings.

"So…" Angel filled the silence. "How's Cordy doing?"

Doyle had been scrutinizing a pair of suspicious claw marks on the neighbor's door, but Angel's question brought him back. "Y'know Cordy—she's _fine_." He answered dryly. "I'm the one who's a mess with worry. This no-vision thing won't last forever, yeah?"

"She can handle it." Angel assured him. "She's strong."

"I know she'll take whatever comes like a champ." Doyle conceded. "But, there's a reason humans weren't meant to have the visions."

Angel nodded, silently acknowledging Doyle's very valid concerns. A slight beat passed as both men stared at the unanswered door. Angel knocked again, louder this time. "I set Lilah straight." He added, returning his hands to his pockets. "She knows if she ever tries to come at us through Cordy again, even by accident… just trust me. She won't."

"I appreciate that, man." Doyle responded and then pointed to the closed door. "Think it's time to invite ourselves in?"

Angel nodded again and abruptly kicked in the front door, revealing a grotesque scene of demon carnage on the other side. Both men stepped through the threshold, taking in the gobs of blood and mutilated appendages that were strewn around the messy room.

"He's dead." Angel stated, squatting down to inspect something that looked like it could have been a bone of some kind.

"Well, yeah. Thank you, Captain Obvious." Doyle responded, trying not to gag as he treaded into a gooey puddle of some sort. He gulped down the bile that rose in his throat; a very familiar looking red horn sat in the corner. Doyle instantly recognized it as the one that had been attached to the forehead of Penny's associate.

Digging a piece of paper out of his pocket, Doyle reread the name that had been written there—Samuel Larch. "Think I knew this guy—not knew him in the sense that I _actually_ knew him, but I saw him a few nights ago. He was very much alive at the time."

"What kind of demon was he?" Angel asked, his brow furrowing at the carnage all around them. "Formidable?"

"And then some." Doyle confirmed. "Whatever did this is not something I wanna run into without proper reinforcements."

Angel stood up straight, not looking like he disagreed with Doyle's assessment. "Let's get back to the hotel—see if Wes and Gunn found anything."


	9. That Old Gang of Mine, Part 2

**9\. That Old Gang of Mine, Part II**

 _"_ _Crazy. I'm crazy for feeling this lonely."_

Doyle sat with one arm propping up his head and the other slung around the slender shoulders of his girlfriend. They were both engrossed by the performer currently seated under the bright spotlight of Caritas' main stage.

"Something feels very wrong about this." He commented.

"You're the one who let her pick her own song." Cordelia said accusingly, lifting her glass of diet soda from the table and taking a sip.

"Inappropriate song choice aside, she's really not half bad." Wesley declared from the other end of the small circular table.

Doyle shot a curious glance at the other man. He was gazing up at the tiny brunette through his spectacles, an added glimmer to his eye. Doyle recognized it at once—the nascent signs of a budding attraction. It wasn't necessarily a surprise, considering what Doyle knew of the person Fred would become. Which, was to say, not quite as crazy as she was now. Doyle knew where this was going—that Wesley was on the verge of falling hard—but he doubted the other man was cognizant of it as of yet.

Mostly because Fred was still currently riding the crazy train.

"I swear, it only took minimal arm-twisting on my part to get her to leave the hotel." Cordelia enthused. "This is real progress, you guys."

Doyle's attention was diverted away from the stage by a familiar figure weaving through the dense demonic crowd. Doyle hadn't been sure the guy would show after recent events, but there he was, sporting his trademark gangster apparel, and tossing furtive glances at all the other demons populating the joint. Making a beeline for the bar, Penny quickly flagged down the bartender.

That was Doyle's cue. Reclaiming his arm from around Cordelia's shoulders, he shifted his weight off the chair he'd been occupying. His sudden movement attracted Cordelia's attention and she leaned forward to eyeball the shady figure at the other end of the bar. "Please don't tell me Meyer Lansky over there is a friend of yours?" She asked disdainfully. "You don't owe him money, do you?"

Pausing in his tracks, Doyle turned back in her direction and she arched was faced with a questioning brow. "He isn't a bookie, love." He assured her, trying to keep an annoyed frown off his lips. "He's just a guy who knows some other guys who know some things."

"A source? Is that why we came here tonight?!" She filled in the blank unenthusiastically. "I thought we were here to show Fred a good time."

"Looks like she's having a great time." He countered, gesturing toward the giggling female still warbling into the microphone. It wasn't a lie; he'd never seen Fred as pleased as she looked this evening. "I'm multi-tasking."

Doyle flashed Cordelia an impish grin, dimples and all, and quickly dropped a kiss onto her cheek. He then retreated from the table before she could lodge any further objections to his work-play ratio.

As he slipped away through the crowd, he paused only to give a firm slap on the back to the owner of the establishment. The tall demon winked conspiratorially in return, brandishing his customary pink drink, complete with little paper umbrella. As Doyle proceeded past the other demon, he could hear Lorne's words of greeting, directed toward the probably irate girlfriend Doyle had just left behind. "Well, aren't we all looking extra dazzle-y this evening—and completely boil-free."

The benefit of having a psychic for a pal—Lorne had impeccable timing. He'd undoubtedly sensed Doyle's need to quickly extricate himself from his table of coworkers and had come swiftly to the rescue, bearing flattering words of distraction. Those always seemed to work well on Cordelia, in particular.

"Penny." Doyle stated the man's name as he sauntered up beside him, and leaned one of his elbows against the bar. "Wasn't sure you'd show."

The slightly shorter man glared up at Doyle from under the brim of his hat. Clearly, he was more reluctant to take this meeting than their last one. His lips were twisted in obvious disapproval. "Neither was I." He sniffed in reply. "You've got some real nerve calling me again after what your buddy did to Larch." The bartender came over at that moment, placing a tumbler down in front of Penny. He swiftly lifted the glass, drained it of its contents and slammed it back down on the bar. "How do you expect to get info from a dead guy, huh?"

"Y'think Angel's the one who tore your guy apart?!" Doyle asked, his brows skyrocketing upward. "He wouldn't do that, man—not without reason. We're detectives, not killers. We're investigating the case; Larch isn't the only demon who's been murdered recently."

"Murdered." Penny scoffed. "You say it like that, it almost sounds convincing. But, you've always been a great bluffer, Doyle—not to mention, a demon-hater. Which is why I don't know if I can trust you on this particular issue." Penny poked an accusatory finger into Doyle's chest. "Only reason I risked coming here tonight is 'cause of the non-demon-violence bit. Don't expect me to do it again. Truth is, I hate this joint. Messes with my own natural abilities, know what I'm saying?"

That was a surprise to Doyle. He wasn't aware that anything could stop Penny from doing what he did best, which was making other people see what wasn't really there. Doyle let out a dry chuckle at the revelation. "Guess we shoulda been playing cards here all those years. Woulda kept more money in my pockets."

"I never cheated you." Penny claimed, snapping his fingers at the bartender and the pointing to his empty glass. "You were just a lousy card player."

"Ah, so it was just all those other poor saps ya cheated." Doyle commented facetiously. "Guess I was special."

"Y'know, calling me a cheater isn't making me feel very forthcoming with any information I may or may not have." Penny grumbled in reply.

"No, but it does bring up a good point." Doyle refuted. "This little arrangement's never been about trust, yeah? It's 'bout keeping things even. You do me a favor; I owe ya. And that means a lot more nowadays than it used to."

Doyle watched as Penny pondered that statement, considering the deeper implications.

It was a damn good thing it wasn't just money Penny was after; Doyle knew he could find plenty of that elsewhere. No, what Penny wanted—what every demon living in the dawn of the apocalypse wanted—was an insurance policy. And no one of this earth could give such a thing. Doyle's greatest asset was his connection to the Higher Powers… or rather, he used to have one. And, thankfully, Penny didn't know he'd lost it.

The smaller man took the bait. He began to nod his head and opened his mouth to reply—

BRACKA-BRACKA-BRACKA

A deafening explosion of fireworks broke out in the contained space!

No, not fireworks. Gunfire.

The bullets sprayed throughout the room without warning. Splatters of demon blood hit the walls as some of those bullets hit their targets. Bodies flew left and right as some ducked for cover, while others were brought down in the sudden storm gunfire.

There wasn't time to think or breathe or do anything other than drop to the ground. Doyle also had the instinct to grab Penny by the collar and yank him down as well, but it was pretty apparent that ducking wouldn't be enough. Still gripping the material of Penny's starched dress shirt, Doyle propelled them both toward the opening in the bar where they could gain some cover. The calamitous sound of automatic gunfire filled the air; both Doyle and Penny covered their ears and shut their eyes as nearly every bottle of booze behind the bar exploded into a thousand shards of wet glass.

Silently, Doyle prayed that Cordelia had also found cover. He couldn't see her; hadn't had time to so much as glance in her direction when all hell had broken loose. Wesley would protect her, he was sure of that. And Fred—poor Fred, if she survived whatever this was, she'd certainly never step foot out of the Hyperion a second time. Doyle just hoped she'd be able to step back _into_ the hotel—she didn't survive five years in a hell dimension to die here tonight, in a karaoke bar.

"Party! Yoo-hoo!" An unfamiliar voice cried out from the other side of the bar, as the gunfire finally subsided. Doyle sensed an influx of individuals who'd just come pouring into the club through the front door, their sneakers squeaking on the slated floors of the club. An educated guess told him they were all heavily armed. And as far as Doyle could infer, all completely human. They had to be. It was the only way they could perpetrate violence in this place—the only way to bypass the rules.

"It's time. Let's truck!" Another voice replied, eager to flee the scene of the crime. _That would be a real good choice,_ Doyle thought. Most of the inhabitants of Caritas were demons; not a single one of them could fight back. Including Doyle himself. It was like shooting fish in barrel. Something these guys probably knew already, which is why they had chosen to target the place.

"Woah, don't be in such a rush, man!" The first voice insisted, a hint of laughter audible. This was fun to him. A celebration of death. "You're always in such a hurry. You're liable to miss out on some of the more interesting things in life. Yo! Charlie Gunn! Come on, now. I know you're in here. Where you at?"

Doyle's stomach rolled over as he heard the reference to his teammate. Doyle hadn't even realized Gunn was on the premises until that very moment. His senses had been clouded by the dense smell of demons and alcohol, but now he honed in on Gunn's signature scent even before he heard the other man's voice permeate the air. "I'm right here."

There was the distinct sound of several pistols being cocked and it wasn't hard for Doyle to picture what was going on. These men had turned their loaded weapons on one of his friends.

"G-man. What're you doing here?" The less-intimidating voice queried, and it was at that moment Doyle decided to slide toward the opening of the bar and peek out into the room. He had to see for himself what the damage was—more importantly, he had to make sure Cordelia was alive. From beside him Penny gave a cautionary look, begging Doyle not to draw attention to their hiding spot. But Doyle ignored the plea, carefully inching sideways as noiselessly as possible.

"Come on. Tell him! Tell him how you been rolling up in here for _months_ tossing back drinks with your demon buddies." The laughing guy said condemningly.

It was then that Doyle stuck his neck out just far enough to get a visual. Gunn was standing there in the center of the room, shell-shocked. It was obvious that he knew these guys—judging by their code of dress, it was fair to say that these guys were members of Gunn's old crew.

"What he's saying—that ain't true." One of the other gang members denied the accusations of the first. He looked vaguely familiar; Doyle had probably seen him before.

"Why not? His best friend's a _vampire_. What you expect?" The first guy retorted, waving his machine gun around the room. Doyle's eyes followed the weapon as it pointed wildly. He could see demon bodies littering the floor, as well as the general wreckage of broken and displaced furniture. He nervously glanced at the stage, hoping he wouldn't find Fred lying in a pool of her own blood. It was a relief to see that the stage was empty.

"Rondell, go." Gunn pleaded with his old comrade. "Just take your crew and leave."

"No. Not until I get some answers." The man called Rondell argued back.

Movement from the other side of the room caught Doyle's eye and he saw a familiar shirtsleeve moving behind one of the tables. He couldn't see the body attached to it, but he knew the blouse in question belonged to Cordelia. A dark head of hair popped partway out from behind the other side of the same table—it was Wesley's head. Doyle breathed again. It was likely that Fred was hidden behind that makeshift-barricade along with Wesley and Cordelia. These assholes better pray none of them were injured otherwise they'd have a furious Brachen demon on their hands… who couldn't do a damn thing to save himself or his girlfriend or anyone else, for that matter. As much as he had always appreciated Caritas' lack of demon violence, it was proving to be problematic at the moment.

Doyle had tuned out the conversation between Gunn and other gang members, but it had become no less heated. And it was the next sentence out of Rondell's mouth that made Doyle's blood run cold. "What makes these demons any different than all the others we killed? They deserve to die, whether they're living underground like rats, or drinking in fancy clubs where they don't belong!"

It was crystal clear now. These were the guys who had killed Merl and Larch. And along with that unsettling revelation came another one.

Gunn knew. And he hadn't said a word.

Swallowing against the bitter pill of betrayal, Doyle settled back, away from the opening. Just as his back flattened against the base of the bar, an arm reached down and yanked him to his feet. Penny, too, was violently yanked upward. The two demons were dragged to the front-side of the bar by armed gang members, guns pushed into their ribcages. The man holding Penny was the mouthy crewmember who seemed most likely to shoot first and ask questions later, which meant there was a good chance he'd do exactly that.

"Hey, watch the suit!" Penny objected, hanging on to his fedora with one hand and smoothing down his lapels with the other. "Custom-tailoring ain't cheap."

"Shut it, _demon_." The man spat in Penny's face.

Doyle stood nearby, also being manhandled by another member of the crew; he bit his tongue for the time being. Getting smart with these guys didn't seem like a good idea, considering how heavily the odds were stacked against him.

"Yo, what you doing, Gio?" Gunn demanded, stepping forward in objection. "Those two look like demons to you?"

The loud mouth, now identified as Gio, said nothing as he knocked Penny's hat off his head, revealing a set of small bone-colored horns that had been hidden underneath. "This one does." He declared spitefully. "The worst kind—a demon pretending to be one of us. How much you wanna bet there's a set of hooves hidden under these expensive threads?"

As Gio roughly yanked at Penny's jacket sleeve, the smaller demon backed himself into the bar, holding up his hands in surrender. "Listen, there are ladies present. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather die with my suit _on_."

"Fine by me." Gio answered, shoving the butt of his gun into Penny's throat and flashing a wide, threatening smile.

Although he knew better than to bring attention to himself, Doyle couldn't just stand by and let Penny get executed. Not when he'd brought the other demon here; not when it was his own teammate partially at fault. "Hey, bud, is all that really necessary?" Doyle wondered, holding his hands up to show that he wasn't going to resort to violence—since he couldn't do that even if he wanted to. "What's he ever done to you?"

"Doyle, man. Stay outta this." Gunn warned, with more than a trace of fear—he was worried for Doyle's safety. That made two of them. "Gio, put down the gun."

"You're forgetting, you ain't in charge anymore, Charlie-boy!" Gio sneered, pressing his gun deeper into Penny's flesh. "The guy's a demon. We kill demons. It's what we do!"

Impulsively, Doyle morphed into his spikes, which caused the man named Gio's eyes to go wide as he swiftly removed the gun from Penny's neck and swung it toward Doyle instead, pointing the barrel right at the bridge of Doyle's nose. The other man, Rondell, also lifted his weapon in Doyle's direction, as did a few other members of the crew.

Now it was Doyle's turn to gulp—this hadn't been the best plan ever.

Penny was batted aside like a ragdoll. He sunk to the floor, grabbing for his hat and placing it back on his head to cover the horns. His hands remained over it in a submissive position. He was no longer the primary target in the room. That honor now went to the more prominent red-eyed, spikey-faced demon who was anything but bullet proof.

"NO!" A shriek from the other side of the room drew some eyeballs. Cordelia bounced out from behind her makeshift barricade, with Wesley and Fred half-visible behind her. Doyle shook his head, wishing she hadn't revealed herself—now some of the guns that had been trained on him, were pointed at her instead. "Please don't! He's good!"

"Hey, she's human!" Gunn shouted to the men who were now angled toward Cordelia. "You better not hurt her— _or_ him. These people are with me."

"But he's not a person!" Gio argued ferociously, his bloodthirsty eyes still focused on Doyle. "See. I told you, Rondell! Your boy Gunn is now a demon-lover. All his friends are demons or they're sleeping with 'em—we supposed to just let 'em breed now?!"

Gunn moved forward, batting aside the barrel of Gio's gun and stepping in front of Doyle. "I ain't gonna let you murder him in cold blood, man. That was never what it was about." He insisted, turning his eyes toward Rondell, who appeared to be the current leader of the crew. "We used to face death 'cause we had to. Now you're chasing it down for the fun of it. That ain't right."

"Looks to me like you're protecting demons instead of fighting 'em!" Gio said accusingly, his gun was pointed at Gunn now, and the fact that he was human didn't seem to faze the man at all. "How can you be friends with this… _thing_?!"

"It ain't about friendship." Gunn countered. "It's about the mission. Doyle here ain't a friend of mine. Angel neither. Nothing personal, it's just the way it is. They are who they are, and I am who I am—but they _use_ who they are to do a lotta good. That's why I fight _with_ 'em instead of against 'em. Ya'll lost the mission; they still got it."

As much as those words chafed, Doyle wasn't completely surprised to hear them. He'd always liked and respected Gunn, but they'd never exactly been close. Just about the only thing they had in common was their dislike of the demon species. Maybe Doyle had been deluding himself into thinking that Gunn saw something in him _other_ than the demon.

It didn't matter now. Gunn's true feelings were out there in the open, and yet he still stood in front of Doyle, defending him. Nothing had to change. Not unless one of the bullets in the room left its cartridge.

"Yeah, well, maybe we should decide who's lost the mission after your vampire pal gets here." Rondell piped up, moving toward Cordelia. He pulled her forward and gave her a little shove toward the front exit. "Go on. We'll wait here while you fetch him. And if he don't show—your boyfriend will be the next dead demon in this room."

Doyle's entire body had flinched in her direction as he saw her manhandled by Rondell, but he was relieved to see that she was free to go, even if she herself wasn't looking nearly as relieved. She anxiously locked eyes with Doyle, silently communicating her desire to keep him living and breathing. He gave her a subtle nod, encouraging her to go. She stumbled a few uncertain steps and then finally raced for the exit to do exactly what she was being sent out to do—draw Angel into an impossible situation, where he couldn't fight back.

As plans went, it wasn't a great one. Doyle didn't want to die in this club, nor did he want to bring Angel down with him. What he did want is for Cordelia to be safe, and for Wesley and Fred to get out of here as well. For now, he'd just have to hope that Gunn had better negotiating skills than he thought, and that Angel would find some way to even the playing field rather than dying on it.


	10. That Old Gang of Mine, Part 3

**10\. That Old Gang of Mine, Part III**

Angel came. He saw. He kicked some ass… with a little help from his friends, The Furies, who Cordelia must have convinced to lift the sanctuary spell on Caritas, allowing demon violence to take place, just in the nick of time.

Even more surprising, Fred, of all people, kicked some serious ass of her own. Hers wasn't literal, but she had stepped up in the clinch, using her fragile appearance to her advantage and affording them the crucial extra seconds needed for the Furies to undo the Caritas mojo.

Gunn had guessed what Rondell and Gio's objective was in bringing Angel to the club—they hadn't wanted to kill the vampire; they had wanted Gunn to kill him. And despite any misgivings Gunn may have about Angel's status as a demon—or Doyle's, for that matter—he had stood steadfast. He was unwilling to kill his allies.

But, Fred—she had stepped up; claimed she was willing to do what Gunn would not. She'd taken the crossbow from Gio and had pointed it right at Angel, insisting she didn't want to die in this place. Angel had understood—no one could blame her for feeling that way. After all she'd been through, she was a natural survivor. She'd do what needed to be done… which, in this case, was turning the bow on Gio and telling him in no uncertain terms just how long it would take him to bleed to death after Fred punctured his carotid artery.

No one had seen that coming, least of all Doyle.

For a few seconds there, they were all certain she was going to do it. Maybe she would have, if Gio hadn't yanked the bow from her hand and aimed it at Angel himself. There was no question he would have shot, if a bright light hadn't exploded throughout the room, putting an end to the sanctuary spell and allowing Angel to spring into action along with Doyle, Gunn, Wesley and all other able-bodied demons left standing in the club. Doyle had slugged a few guys, knocking their guns to the floor—he was making his way toward Gio, when the man's head was suddenly eclipsed—and removed—by an enormous insect-like demon, who was subsequently gunned down by the man named Rondell.

Now it was done. A ceasefire had kept there from being further bloodshed or loss of life, human or demon. All things considered, it was the best possible outcome that could've been expected.

"Gotta say, love. You're one hell of an actress. I believed you'd do the deed." Doyle commented to Fred as he held a cab door open for her. "Maybe Cordy should hook ya up with her old talent manager."

Fred was beaming proudly as she ducked into the cab and slid over so he could climb in beside her. "It was nothing." She demurred, a rosy blush creeping into her cheeks. "Just a standard reversal of expectations, that's all."

From the corner of his eye, Doyle could see Penny lingering on the sidewalk, a few steps removed from the rapidly thinning crowd of demons and gangbangers. The man was straightening his fedora and smoothing down his suit jacket. He had no reason to hang around, unless, of course, his business with Doyle wasn't quite finished yet.

Sticking his head into the cab, Doyle addressed Fred and the driver simultaneously. "It'll just be another minute, yeah?"

As Doyle approached Penny, the other demon stuck out a hand. Although, Doyle was taken aback by the gesture, he took the hand that was offered and shook it firmly.

"I always knew you was good half-people, Doyle." Penny said amicably, silently adding his thanks for Doyle's protection during the traumatic events. He reached for his jacket, opening it so he could access his breast pocket. From there he procured a small rectangular piece of paper and held it out between two fingers. "Looks like I owe you that favor you asked for."

Doyle stared down at the nondescript piece of paper, which featured the letters I.O.U. and a phone number in tiny print. Grinning down at the card and flipping it over in his hands, Doyle looked up to see that Penny had begun to walk away.

Holding up the card to Penny's back, Doyle called out. "Will I be left holding a joker after you're gone?"

Penny paused, and turned back to Doyle, giving his fedora a little tip. "Hope to see you back at the tables." He answered with an impish grin. "Consider yourself welcome at mine."

Turning away once more, Penny disappeared into the night.

Doyle shoved the card into the pocket of his beat-up leather jacket, and turned back to the rest of the action. Mostly everyone had left the premises by now, but Angel and Gunn still lingered a few feet away, looking as if they were clearing the air. As Doyle made his way closer to the two men, he could overhear the tale end of what passed for Gunn's version of an apology. "No matter what else, I think I proved that you can trust me when I could have killed you and I didn't."

"No." Angel objected, momentarily catching Doyle's eye over Gunn's shoulder. "You'll prove that I can trust you when day comes that you _have_ to kill me, and you do."

Letting those words land, Angel turned away from Gunn and proceeded toward Doyle.

"Y'know, I really wish you'd stop telling all your friends to kill ya." Doyle said with a reproachful shake of his head. "Kind of a buzzkill."

Angel's hands slid easily into his pockets and he gave a little shrug. "Doesn't mean we can't get along."

"I'd like to think he didn't mean all that business 'bout not being friends." Doyle confessed. "I mean, the fact that I don't currently have a bullet in my brain and you don't have a stake through the heart—that's gotta mean something."

"It means he's got priorities." Angel allowed. "And right now, those priorities include us."

"Well, let's keep it that way, yeah? If anything should keep ya from getting too happy, it's the thought of getting on Gunn's bad side." Doyle replied, nodding toward the cab that was waiting to take him back to the hotel along with Fred. "Wanna ride with us?"

"Think I could use the walk." Angel answered distractedly, moving off in the same direction Penny had disappeared earlier.

Doyle looked after him, mumbling under his breath. "Yeah, bud. I know the feeling."

* * *

The cab pulled up to the familiar wrought iron gates of the Hyperion Hotel and Doyle could see a slender, dark-haired figure pacing nervously behind them. He was eager to scoop her into his arms and kiss her senseless. After a brush with death, there was nothing Doyle wanted more than her. She was his solace—able to cleanse away all the bad and replace it with good.

Fred got out of the cab first and Doyle slid out behind her, only pausing to hand some cash to the driver. He hopped out onto the sidewalk, and was instantly tackled by the torpedo that was his girlfriend. He caught her just as both his feet hit the ground, and nearly tottered backward into the street. The cab drove off behind him. Over Cordelia's shoulder, he could see Fred dart inconspicuously through the front gates, leaving the two lovers to their happy reunion.

"I was so worried." Cordelia breathed into his ear, squeezing him tightly against her bosom.

He chuckled heartily as he held her close, "Ya already knew I was coming back in one piece, darlin'." He was able move back just enough to see her face, affectionately brushing his thumb against the side of her cheek. "We all survived thanks to you. How did ya convince those Furies to remove their spell anyway?"

"The magic word was _Angel_." She informed him, wrinkling up her face in disgust for a moment. "Those three mystical floozies are big fans of his _equipment_. I was just the messenger."

Stepping out of her embrace, he offered her the crook of his arm instead. "Care to tell me about it over a slice o' pie?"

She considered his offer, as she slid her arm around his elbow. "Not exactly the type of dessert I had in mind."

"We can have the other kind when we get home, yeah?" He promised, as they began to leisurely stroll away from the hotel. "I know how all the life-or-death stuff works ya up."

Cordelia laughed, "You know me so well."

He winked down at her flirtatiously—and then she abruptly stopped walking. Frozen in place, the smile fell from her lips and her eyes widened, fixed on some unknown spot in the distance.

"Cordy? What is it?" He asked, searching the darkness ahead and seeing nothing of interest. Nor did he sense anything around them that would give her pause.

Then he realized, it wasn't something she had seen… it was something she was about to see!

A split second before her body rocked forward, he caught her. What followed was a blood-curdling scream as the first vision she'd ever experienced tore through her brain. Doyle clung to her, easing her down to the sidewalk as she writhed and thrashed against him.

He knew it was going to be hard to watch her go through this. He just didn't realize how hard.

The seconds ticked by—it felt like she was having the longest vision ever sent, when in fact, it probably was shorter than the vast majority of visions he'd experienced. Still, he was insanely relieved when the life came back into her eyes and she was released from the Higher Powers' latest message. As the invisible horrors ebbed away, he felt her body shudder.

She immediately reached up, placing her hands against her neck. "I saw… oh God." She mumbled incoherently as tears began to roll down over her cheeks. "No."

"It's okay." Doyle soothed, rocking her gently against his chest. He had the oddest sense of reverse Déjà vu. Countless times he'd come out of the haze of a vision to find himself lying in Cordelia's arms, blubbering into her clothing. He'd heard her say the exact same meaningless words he was now uttering to her. Knowing that they were completely untrue, because nothing about a vision was ever okay. "Just breathe… and tell me what ya saw."

"Her head. It came off." She choked, her tearful eyes finally landing on his, which were filled with concern. "She was so young."

A decapitation. Why did her first vision have to be so _brutal_? Couldn't she have been eased in with something simple, like a vampire bite or a werewolf mauling?

"I can taste the blood." She sniffled, still keeping her hands wrapped around her throat—he knew what that was about. She was making sure it wasn't her own head that had been removed from her body. For a few seconds there, it was probably hard to tell.

"Cordy." He whispered, cradling her as close to his chest as humanly possible. "We're gonna stop it—whatever ya saw. It's not gonna happen. Ya hear me?"

That seemed to do the trick. She let go of her neck and began furiously wiping away her tears. She nodded and sat up a little straighter, allowing him to help her back to her feet. Once they were both standing, he eased his arm around her back and ushered her toward the entrance of the hotel.

Doyle may not have experienced the vision personally, but he felt the same sense of rapidly building urgency he always did. The sense of urgency that was undoubtedly now building inside of Cordelia, and would keep growing until the mission was over.

Once inside, they would call the others and figure out how to save the girl.

They _had_ to—they were the only ones who could.

* * *

 **A/N- Just popping in to say thanks for the continued readership and feedback. Ever since I started writing these Doyle-centric rewrites, I knew I wanted to explore a Cordy/Doyle role reversal at some point, and season 3 (being so very vision-centric) seemed like the right time to do it. So, yes, belated warning... I am going to be putting Cordy through hell on a regular basis, compliments of the PTB. There will be some ups and downs for both she and Doyle as they adjust to their new dynamic, but, I worked hard to keep them both in-character (as I see them) and highlight their strengths and weaknesses throughout the entire journey (because that's what makes it interesting). Hope you will keep an open mind and most of all, hope you will enjoy the fun! xx**


	11. Carpe Noctem, Part 1

**11\. Carpe Noctem, Part I**

Cordelia sat at her desk flipping through the latest issue of Cosmo and stifling a yawn. Nothing within the glossy pages felt relevant to her anymore. She couldn't afford the clothes. Didn't need the dating advice. And wasn't all that interested in what some anorexic-looking model _didn't_ eat for breakfast. Still, she needed something to pass the time and it was either Cosmo or one of Wesley's smelly old books full of demons.

Cosmo for the win.

The little clicking sounds to her left, signaled that Gunn was hard at work at the front counter… mashing the keys on his portable video game console. There was also a dull muttering emanating from Wesley's office, signaling he too was working diligently. Although, his was _actual_ work, poring over a new translation that may shed light on the vision-swapping situation.

Finally, she caught the sound of light snoring—that would be her shadow, aka Allen Francis Doyle. His feet were propped up on her desk, his arms folded across his chest and his head had drooped down to rest against his shoulder. No surprise to see him dozing off; he'd barely been sleeping at night. Tossing and turning. Tossing and turning. Worrying himself sick.

As if that helped the situation.

Sure, the visions turned out to be a bit worse than Cordelia had imagined, but she certainly hadn't told Doyle that. Nor would she. _Ever_. No, as far as he knew, she was taking her aspirin like a good little seer and completely handling the situation.

And that was the truth… mostly. For now, at least, she could relish in the complete and utter boredom of the evening, since boring was as close to normal as they could get. No visions, no cases. Not a demon was stirring, not even a—

"AH!" Cordelia shrieked as someone unexpectedly crept up behind her.

Doyle leapt at her cry, going from sound asleep to wide-awake and on his feet in a split second. "A vision?!" He yelped. "Ya need ice? Aspirin? …whiskey?"

"Down, boy." Cordelia replied evenly. This was the way things were now—so much as a hiccup from her was met with a code blue from Doyle. It was half endearing and half maddening. "It's not a vision, it's a Fred."

"Hey, Fred." Gunn greeted their new arrival without looking up from his game.

"Hey!" Fred responded with a guilty grin. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle y'all."

"Oh, ah… hey there, Fred." Doyle said, recovering from his high alert status. He scratched at the side of his head somewhat sheepishly. "Real good to see ya out and about."

"More like creeping about." Cordelia added with a saccharine smile. "Shouldn't you be off, y'know… hanging on Angel's every word?"

As if on cue, it was Angel's very words that cut through the air. "Am I the only one who read this?!" He waved the newspaper in the air as he descended the main staircase, proceeding directly to the reception area where the others were unofficially gathered.

"I'm strictly a sports section kinda guy." Doyle mentioned. "The gossipy bits give me indigestion."

Angel spread the paper out on the countertop, tapping it with enthusiasm. "Charlton Heston! Double Feature!" He announced with a wider grin than could be considered normal for Angel. Mostly because Angel didn't grin. "At the Nuart. _Soylent Green_ and _The Omega Man_."

"Wow." Gunn deadpanned, still not bothering to look up from his game.

A vague grunt could be heard from within Wesley's office, but whether it was a response to Angel or simply the reaction to a challenging conjugation, no one could be sure. Cordelia simply turned back to the pages of her magazine, figuring that would illustrate her complete and utter disinterest.

"Two for one! Who's in?" Angel enthused, seemingly unaffected by the lackluster response from the rest of the group.

"That sounds great!" Fred chirped, raising her hand.

"Great!" Angel replied, turning his eyes to his best friend. "Doyle? Come on—did I mention Charlton Heston?"

Amusement showed on Doyle's face as he gave a noncommittal shrug. "He was great in that ape flick." Perching himself on the edge of Cordelia's desk, he leaned over to affectionately nudge her shoulder. "How 'bout it, darlin'? What's say we have ourselves a little date night, yeah? I'll even spring for the large popcorn."

"No, thanks." She answered without looking up. "Have fun."

"Ya don't wanna go to the movies with me?" He asked in a slightly wounded tone.

"Nope." She confirmed, closing the magazine and leaning back in her chair. "I'm pretty beat—think I'll head home and take a bath."

The thought of sitting in the dark for four hours, in an uncomfortable seat, watching a bunch of old-fogies chew up the scenery sounded like the opposite of how she wanted to spend her night off. Especially since she could probably find those same movies on basic cable.

Doyle's face changed; he looked like a little boy who had chosen the wrong flavor of ice cream and now desperately wanted to trade it back. "Come to think of it… I'm pretty tuckered myself." He said, stretching his arms in a mock show of exhaustion and tossing an apologetic glance over to Angel. "Maybe next time, man."

Angel shook his head, letting some of his disappointment show. "Looks like it's just you and me, Fred." He nodded to the petite brunette and she bounded around the reception counter, obediently following him to the front door.

Cordelia watched the two of them go and then quirked a brow. "She's definitely gonna think that's a date."

"Ah… yeah. Maybe." Doyle sounded like he wasn't completely cognizant of what he was agreeing with. Nor did he seem to know what to do with himself. Aside from awkwardly leaning on the side of her desk, watching her every move.

"Why don't you go along and make it less date-like then?" She suggested, leaning down to procure her handbag from under her desk. When she sat back up, she narrowed her eyes in her boyfriend's direction. "Oh, let me guess—you'd rather sit around waiting for me to have my next spaz attack?"

Doyle's cheeks flushed and his eyes averted to the ceiling, making it clear she'd pegged the situation for what it was.

All his nervous hovering hadn't exactly escaped her notice. They always spent a lot of time together, but lately he'd been attached to her hip. She couldn't even floss her teeth at night without him knocking on the bathroom door every five minutes, asking if she was alright.

Um, yeah, just siphoning out the broccoli from dinner.

"Listen. If I have a vision while you aren't standing two feet away from me, there's a good chance someone else will catch me." She assured him, slinging her purse over her shoulder and rising to her feet. "Like Gunn, for instance. He's got great reflexes."

"I gotcha covered, girl." Gunn responded, still intensely focused on his hand-held game.

"And at home I have Dennis." She added. "Besides, I just had a vision this week, I'm probably good for a while."

"Doesn't really work that way." Doyle pointed out, his forehead creasing with concern. "And… if I'm being honest, ya seem a bit off lately, yeah?"

"I'm a bit off because you won't leave me alone for a damn second!" She snapped back at him, tired of having her words fall on his deaf Irish ears, which were attached to an incredibly stubborn man. "You're the one making me crazy, Doyle. I love you and I appreciate your concern, but you have to stop treating me like my head's about to explode." She reached out to lightly pat his arm. "I'm not gonna break, okay? Now go out and enjoy the movies. I'll see you later."

He stood there searching her face, trying to decipher if she really meant what she was saying or if she was merely putting on a brave front. "If that's what ya want." He finally relented, slowly moving toward the coat rack to grab his leather jacket. "Call me if ya need anything—I'll leave my phone on."

"I'm sure the other patrons of the theater will _love_ that." She sassed him.

Doyle was frowning slightly as he moved back in her direction, dropped a kiss on the side of her head and then shuffled off toward the front door. When he reached the front landing, he paused for another reluctant glance back at Cordelia. She shooed him vehemently and he finally turned around and left.

She almost felt bad, sending him away like a sad little puppy. But not _that_ bad.

With everything she'd gone through recently, she deserved a few hours to herself, without Doyle watching and worrying. She could soak in the tub until her skin pruned. She could sit in silence and just... breathe. She could even cry, if she wanted to. Not that she wanted to, but it was good to have the option.

Slinging her purse over her shoulder, Cordelia stuck her head into Wesley's office. He was buried chin-deep in a rather large book, his eyes and brows scrunched up tight in concentration.

"I'm heading out." Cordelia announced, causing him to sit up sharply as if she'd startled him the way Fred had done to her earlier. Although, in this case, it was Wesley's own fault for being so engrossed in his translation. "Any luck with the latest unreadable book?"

Wesley removed his spectacles, and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, a mask of contrition slipping over his features. "I wish I had better news." He replied, placing the glasses back on his face. "But these books I'm translating are translations in and of themselves, written over centuries. The results are… rather like an unfortunate game of telephone."

"So, I shouldn't be holding my breath." Cordelia filled in the blank.

"Actually, according to the Druids, holding your breath may be quite helpful... while being submerged in a boiling vat of oil." He remarked dully. "I'm not saying I'm giving up, Cordelia—it just seems unlikely that the answers will be found in these pages. As much as Doyle wishes them to be."

"Well, thanks for trying." She said with a half smile. "I promise, I won't let him drag any Phalangoid demons in here to suck out your brain and speed up the process."

"I do appreciate that." Wesley answered with a light chuckle. "Have a good night."

"You, too." She replied, turning away from Wesley's open doorway and tossing a wave to Gunn over her shoulder. "See you tomorrow."

* * *

It was late, but not that late when Doyle arrived home that evening. He'd sat through _Soylent Green_ , but took a pass on _The Omega Man._ As it turned out, he could only tolerate Charlton Heston in single doses. Not to mention the indigestion _Soylent Green_ 's big reveal had caused him—it was people?! They were eating people! He'd gladly surrendered his tub of popcorn to Fred at that point, since her appetite seemed unaffected by the gruesome plot twist.

Doyle figured it was probably for the best that he'd lost interest in the movies. He hadn't really been enjoying his night at the cinema. Not with the empty seat at his right—the one that should've been filled by his girlfriend. Throughout the flickering darkness, he'd eyed that empty spot, his mind wandering to Cordelia, sitting at home alone.

 _She wanted to be alone_ , he reminded himself. He tried not to pout too hard about that fact. He did, after all, understand the need to be alone every now and then. He just wasn't used to her getting to the point where she had to _ask_ for it; historically speaking, she had always hassled Doyle for _not_ being around when she wanted him, not the reverse.

He was reminded of when he'd first acquired the visions. Doyle had spent countless hours alone, with nothing to comfort him aside from his trusty bottle of whiskey and several packs of cigarettes. To make matters worse, he hadn't been stopping the awful things in his visions from actually happening, which only made the need for the bottle stronger. Guilt on top of horror on top of guilt.

It was a very dark time for him. He didn't want it to be that way for her.

It _shouldn't_ be that way for her. Not when she had Doyle by her side, and Angel there to fight the good fight. Not when she had big brothers Wesley and Gunn to watch her back, and little sister Fred to look after. She wasn't alone; she'd never be alone.

Doyle was trying not to be a worrywart. Trying not to be overly paranoid about what the visions would do to Cordelia. He needed his judgment now more than ever; it wouldn't serve him to be clouded by fear, analyzing every move she made. Sure, there was that nagging voice way down deep that told him the visions might change her. Eventually. Maybe she was destined to become that other version of herself whom he'd met so long ago. Or maybe she'd become something else entirely. Either way, there was a chance she wouldn't want the things that this Cordelia— _his_ Cordelia—wanted—like Doyle, for instance.

See, there he went, letting his paranoia get carried away. He shook off those ridiculous—and ridiculously selfish—thoughts just as fast as they had arrived. There was no reason to think that his Cordelia would be anyone other than his Cordelia. Just because she didn't want to go to the movies with him on one occasion, did not signal a significant change in personality. After all, Cordelia had never been all that fond of sitting in the dark during a date night; she was more of a dinner and dancing kind of girl. A twirling in the middle of the dance floor kind of girl. An all-eyes-on-her kind of girl.

She was Doyle's kind of girl.

Pushing open the front door to the apartment, Doyle stepped over the threshold and was at once greeted by Clover, who threaded herself through his legs as he walked. "Hey, girl." He murmured, pausing only briefly to rub the cat's soft, little head before moving deeper into the apartment to find that which he had been missing all night.

Most of the lights were off, save a dim glow emanating from the bedroom. After kicking his shoes aside, Doyle padded by the bathroom door, catching the thick, delicious aroma of Cordelia's favorite bubble bath—lavender and vanilla. He loved when she soaked in that stuff for hours, the way it clung to every inch of her skin, the way it made her impossibly soft skin that much softer. It was like adding an extra dollop of frosting to an already tasty cupcake.

Hmmm, looked like he'd regained his appetite.

Making it to the bedroom doorway, he was greeted by one of his favorite sights. Cordelia, seated on the side of the bed, running her hands over her long legs as she pampered the skin she'd so recently soaked.

"Evening, Princess." He greeted her, leaning in the doorframe as he admired the scene.

Cordelia's head popped up at the sound of his voice, and a smile spread across her face almost instantly. "You're home early." She noted, sounding like she was pleasantly surprised by this development instead of annoyed. It was quite a change from earlier in the evening when she'd practically chased him out of the hotel with a broom.

"Ah, y'know, I had my fill o' dystopian futures for one evening." Doyle remarked. From behind his back, he procured a bouquet of colorful blooms, which he extended toward her. "I was thinkin' I'd find a better one right here."

She beamed back at him, briefly turning away to place her bottle of lotion on her bedside table. Then she slid off the side of the bed and flounced across the carpet toward the spot where he leaned, graciously accepting the flowers and holding them up to her nose.

"I know there are things ya much prefer to flowers." Doyle said with a knowing smile. "Just wasn't sure how you'd receive the other half o' my offerings." He gestured to himself to make it clear that he was, in fact, the other half.

Her eyes lifted so that she was looking up at him through the veil of her lashes, the bottom half of her face nested within the aromatic flower petals. It gave the illusion that she was being both mischievous and shy all at once.

"I like both offerings." She assured him, lowering the flowers from her face and then holding them out to the side, waiting for an invisible hand to take them… which it did, compliments of Dennis. "Thanks, Dennis." She murmured idly, as the flowers went sailing away toward the kitchen. It was then that she prowled closer to Doyle, placing her hands on his chest. "But I like one a lot more than the other."

She reached up and kissed him, long, lingering and sweet. As her lips moved against his and her tongue gently sought entrance, he sensed that she was not only accepting his offering, but also apologizing for making him feel like he was unwanted. Both of which, he appreciated immensely.

The kiss became more inviting, more heated, more demanding. Doyle's arms slid around Cordelia's slender waist, enjoying the thin, cotton fabric of her nightclothes. "I love you, Cordy." He mumbled between kisses, letting her be the one to gently guide them across the room, toward the bed.

"I know." She answered in a throaty whisper, letting the flimsy silk robe she'd been wearing over her pajamas fall to the floor. "The feeling's mutual."

The rest of her minimal clothing followed her robe, his clothes were next to go. And deep within the folds of her perfumed skin, all Doyle's fears were laid to rest.

At least for one night.


	12. Carpe Noctem, Part 2

**12\. Carpe Noctem, Part II**

"And he walks on the street side and not the building side; it's old-fashioned, but kind of chivalrous, you know?"

Cordelia rolled her eyes as she stood from her desk and moved farther away from Wesley's office, hoping to dull the incessant chatter from within. She'd had more than enough of Fred's nonstop gushing where Angel was concerned. How Wes could actually be sitting in that room, looking Fred right in the eye as he listened to the endless stream of babble, Cordelia would never know.

Lifting a pile of unopened mail from the front counter, she skirted around the reception booth and settled on the plush red lounger in the front of the lobby. It afforded her slightly more privacy than her own desk. That _was_ until the front doors swung open, making way for a slightly disheveled Irishman with an affable grin. He was carrying a take-out carton containing two coffee cups and his smile instantly broadened when he spotted Cordelia.

Making a beeline in her direction, he plopped himself down on the empty cushion beside her, carefully removing the hot beverages from their holder and placing one of them on the small table at his side. "I got your favorite." He announced, holding the second cup in her direction. "Nonfat skinny latte."

"Thanks." She said, accepting the cardboard cup with a congenial smile. While some of Doyle's constant fawning had gotten tiresome, she wasn't going to complain about him going out of his way to pick up her favorite morning treat. She took a small sip of the contents. "Mmmm. Just how I like it— _with_ whipped cream."

"I pay attention, Princess." He assured her, lifting his own cup and removing the take-out lid to inspect the contents. It appeared to be plain, black coffee. Just how he liked it.

"Did you see the moonbeams shoot out of Angel's eyes last night?" She snarkily inquired, as she leafed through the pile of mail on her lap.

Bill. Junk. Bill. Junk. Oh, and look at that… another bill.

She began tossing the junk-mail aside, keeping the bills trapped between her fingers. She'd gladly toss those, too. But, it probably wouldn't go over well. Not when they'd grown so fond of electricity and phone service.

"Ah..." Doyle's brows drew together quizzically, as he tried to interpret her question. "I meant I pay attention to _you_ , darlin'. Can't say I took any particular notice of Angel's eyes as of late."

"You made a big mistake skipping out early last night." She lightly scolded, bobbing her head toward Wesley's office behind them. "Three was a crowd, two was a _date_... Fred's been going on all morning about the _super_ time she and Angel had after you left. Giant popcorn and all."

Doyle cringed. "I should probably talk to her, yeah? Mention the whole bit about Angel not really, uh… y'know. Dating and such."

"Angel should be the one to talk to her." Cordelia corrected, going back to her mail-sorting. "She's got the big puppy love. And the only one who can kill it is the neutered pit bull himself."

Bill. Junk… not a bill.

She paused as she came across a fancy, thick envelope addressed to her, complete with shiny, calligraphy writing. She looked at the fancy loops of her name etched in silver ink and then quickly tossed the item into the junk pile without a second glance.

Doyle had been sipping his coffee, but he cut his sip short to lodge an objection. "What did'ya do that for?"

Looking up from her pile of endless bills, Cordelia gave a disinterested shrug. "Because pit bulls are really strong and have big teeth. As for the neutered part, well, I think _that's_ pretty obvious. I could've gone with 'emotionally stunted eunuch,' but metaphors are more fun."

"Ya tossed this into the junk pile." Doyle clarified, retrieving the fancy envelope she'd previously discarded. He flipped the large rectangle over to see the return address etched into the underside. "It's from your friend Kelly—looks like a wedding invitation."

"That's because it is." Cordelia agreed, momentarily pausing to sip from her own coffee cup before turning back to the mail in her lap.

"So... lemme get this straight. Ya don't wanna go to a big fancy party?" Doyle sputtered with disbelief. He proceeded to wave the piece of mail around like a flag. "You'd have to buy a new dress."

"We'll probably be busy saving the world that night." She answered, without looking up.

"Ya didn't even open it." He complained, his lips falling into a curious pout.

She gave him a questioning glance out of the corner of her eye, trying to figure out why this even mattered to him. It wasn't like Doyle to bait her into buying expensive new things, nor did he ever seem to care about social occasions that occurred outside of sports bars and local pubs. His sudden interest in her friend's wedding was more than a little out of character, and yet, he seemed to be taking the conversation incredibly seriously.

With a beleaguered sigh, Cordelia removed the pile of bills from her lap and snatched the oversized envelope from Doyle's hand. Ripping the pastel folds open without much care about the state of the contents, she removed the matching rectangular card within and eyeballed it. "November 16th. Beverly Hills Hotel… Yup. Definitely saving the world that night."

"Swanky place." Doyle remarked with veiled interest.

"I've heard the duck is dry." Cordelia responded, shoving the invitation back into its torn envelope and tossing the whole thing back into the junk pile. "There. Happy? It's been opened."

She seized her stack of bills, gave them a light tap on the table and then stood up abruptly, taking her latte along with her to the reception counter. She could feel Doyle's eyes drilling into her back as she walked away; the gears were still loudly turning in his head. Therefore, it wasn't at all surprising when he stood up and wandered to the front side of the counter to continue their banter.

"This is about the visions, yeah?" He stated plainly, sounding more than a little disheartened by this particular fact.

"Oh, please. Don't start." She scoffed, keeping her head partially turned away from him. Those pale eyes of his were dangerous; capable of digging right through to her soul. And right now, she wasn't interested in having him see that much.

"Y'know, ya can go out in public with 'em, Cordy." He advised. "They're not a prison sentence."

"What's with the intense need to feel guilty, huh?" She deflected. "Is that, like, a Catholic thing?"

His brow furrowed with objection and then smoothed almost immediately. "Well, yeah… but that doesn't make what I'm saying any less true."

"Listen, if I really wanted to go to the wedding, I'd go." She insisted, snatching a letter opener from the counter and plodding away toward her desk, tossing a final declaration over her shoulder. "You're absolved!"

From the opposite side of the counter, his reply was dry and disbelieving. "That's a relief."

After an extended beat, he scuttled around the physical divider, quickly taking up residence beside her desk. Resting one hand on the edge, he leaned over her, continuing to give her the third degree. "Ya mind telling me _why_ ya don't wanna go?"

"Like a dog with a bone." She muttered under her breath, slicing open the sealed envelopes in her pile, one by one. "Fine. What do you wanna hear? That I'm being passive aggressive about my own lack of engagement? Y'know, like a _normal_ girlfriend."

That gave Doyle pause. His mouth formed a silent "O" and he recoiled, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Ah…so. That's it? You're wanting to, ah—?" He gulped audibly.

"No, of course that's not it." Cordelia shot back. "Give me some credit, Doyle. If I wanted a ring on my finger, you'd know. When have I ever been subtle about jewelry?" She sliced through another sealed envelope with a loud rip. "I don't know why it even matters. Do you know how many fancy parties I've missed because of this job? Not to mention all the auditions and yoga classes and dental appointments…"

Doyle stood quietly by, looking like he'd finally run out of ways to ask the same question. "Well..." He finally tried again, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he sought the best way to verbalize his concerns. "I guess it's 'cause… the Cordy _I know_ loves to dress up and socialize. Kind of a defining trait, as a matter o' fact. So, now that you've got no interest, I've gotta wonder... what's changed?" He sat himself down on the edge of her desk, his shoulders slumping forward. "Seems the answer's fairly obvious, yeah?"

Cordelia was hedging around his inquisition, and they both knew it. She chose coyness over lies, since—she wasn't in the habit of being dishonest with him. But she also wasn't willing to readily acknowledge the truth.

He was right—not in the exact way he _thought_ he was right—but he was right all the same. She'd rather choke on her own tongue than admit that out loud, though.

Setting aside her busy-work, she finally swiveled her chair around to give Doyle her undivided attention. "Maybe I've just grown out of that stuff."

All the color drained from his face, which was remarkable, since he hadn't started with much color in the first place. And yet, her words had made him noticeably paler.

"Isn't it a good thing?" She asked rhetorically. "I spent most of my life wanting a big princess wedding at an absurdly expensive locale with a guest list a mile long. Paid for by daddy, of course. There would've been a horse-drawn carriage, an ice sculpture in my likeness and a flock of doves being released just as I said 'I do.' It was all about me, me, me. The groom didn't even matter, as long as he was rich enough to keep me in blue boxes for the rest of my days."

"I see." Doyle said in a reserved voice, uncertain where she was going with all this, but certain he wasn't going to like it.

"That's _so_ old-Cordy, not me." Cordelia assured him, with a dismissive wave. "Ice sculptures are tacky, and doves—kinda unsanitary. All that faux-Princess-y stuff seems silly now. I mean, I'm an _actual_ Princess in Pylea, which is way better... I guess I've just realized there are more important things to focus on, not the least of which is the pending apocalypse."

The disappointment shimmering in Doyle's eyes surprised her. She had made what she considered to be a _very_ sound argument for skipping her friend's frivolous wedding reception. And she had managed to do it without ever breathing one word about her visions.

 _Her_ visions. They were _her_ visions.

It was still hard to wrap her head around, even though her head had been wrapped around a few of those visions already. Oh, what fun that was _not_.

But what really gave her pause was that _she_ , Cordelia Chase, had been saddled with a big cosmic duty. The visions didn't just come with supersized headaches and loss of control over her motor functions; they came with a huge responsibility. She had to take her new calling seriously. She couldn't let Angel down. She couldn't let the Powers That Be down. She also couldn't let Doyle down. She had to leave the last remnants of her shallow, cheerleader life behind. She had to be… an adult.

Like Doyle before her—only with better clothes.

Speaking of which, Cordelia reminded herself that even if she wanted to go to the wedding, she couldn't exactly afford a new dress for the occasion. So what would be the point? If Cordelia was actually going to foray into her old, opulent world for one evening, she _had_ to look fabulous while doing it.

"Hmmm." Doyle murmured thoughtfully, rubbing his fingers across his chin. "Here I was thinkin' the apocalypse is exactly the reason we _should_ go… and I'd have to rent a tux, y'know. Not to brag, but I have it on good authority that I clean up well."

A quick burst of laughter escaped her lips; she attempted to smother it behind her hand as Doyle's expression darkened. Naturally, the first tuxedo that had sprung to her mind was one of those powder blue numbers you'd find in a thrift shop. That was Doyle's aesthetic, after all.

Regaining control over herself, she dropped her hand away from her mouth and narrowed her eyes in Doyle's direction. "I thought you hated when I dragged you to parties."

"Ah, I put up a good front, Princess, but truth is… I'm a social kinda guy." He confessed, furnishing her with a roguish grin, complete with ample show of dimple. "And, there's more to life than sports bars—so I've been told."

How could she resist a smile like that? She couldn't, that's how.

One long sigh later, she sat forward and dug a pen out of the cup on her desk. "Okay." She relented, selecting a black one and extending it in Doyle's direction. "If it means that much to you… then _you_ get to fill out the RSVP card."

Doyle grinned madly at his victory, plucking the pen out of the air. "Ya won't be sorry, love. It'll be a blast!"

"Uh huh." Her mask of apathy slipped as she caught his infectious smile. Maybe she was actually a little relieved that he'd won this particular dispute. The wedding would be a nice change of pace from all the demon killing and dismemberment; and she could always hide the tags on her new dress and return it later… "Alright, party-animal." She segued jokily. "Now that that's settled, it's time to get back to business… your best friend needs your help."

"Angel?" He responded, his eyes darting toward the empty lobby where Angel clearly was _not_.

"No, Jo-Jo the Dog Faced boy." She answered sarcastically. "Of course, Angel."

"What's wrong with him?" Doyle wondered, biting on the tip of her pen. He still was perched on the edge of her desk, and didn't seem in a terrible rush to leave even though he'd already gotten his way.

"You need to instruct Mr. Clueless-About-His-Effect-on-Women on how to let a girl down easy." Cordelia explained. "Not that you'd know what that's like, but I'm sure you've read about it or seen it on TV."

"Actually, that happens to be an area I have a lotta experience with, thank you very much." Doyle rebutted half-jokingly. "It's the accent, yeah? Like catnip to the American ladies."

"Must counteract the kryptonite that is your wardrobe." She answered mechanically and then gave him a semi-apologetic smile. To his credit, he looked far more amused by her insult, than annoyed.

"Did anyone else see this?!"

Both Cordelia's and Doyle's heads whipped toward the front counter, only mildly surprised to find Angel standing there, holding up a newspaper. They had gotten used to his preternatural stealth by this point.

"If they're playing Ben-Hur, count me in, man." Doyle exclaimed, pointing his index finger like a gun. "There aren't nearly enough films about chariot racing."

"Dead body of 26 year old, Woodrow Raglan, found at the Elondria Hotel." Angel read from the inked page before him. "Witnesses say it was as if his insides just collapsed." He looked up from the black and white print, a slight furrow over his brow. "Sounds like it could be a burrower demon—like that Tahlmer guy we killed a few years back."

"See, that right there is why Angel needs to talk to Fred himself." Cordelia commented, waving an index finger in the vampire's direction. "He walks in and _sluuuurp_ —all the joy gets sucked outta the room. It's a gift."

"Hey." Angel objected, looking from Doyle to Cordelia and then back again.

Doyle only chuckled as he stood from his perch, crossed the small span of space to the front counter and took the paper out of his friend's hand. "Better bring this gift to the boss."

* * *

Cordelia pushed through the front doors of the Hyperion with Angel trailing behind her. Doyle had finally released her from his hawk-like gaze, but only because she'd agreed to stick with Angel. So, stick with Angel she had—mostly. Until that point when Angel had wandered off, leaving Cordelia alone to question a multitude of hot, sweaty, muscle-clad male specimens who frequented the same gym the latest dead guy belonged to.

She _may_ leave out that part when relaying the evening's investigatory events to Doyle. Not that he had any reason to worry, but these days he worried about _everything_.

Tossing a curious glance over her shoulder, Cordelia noticed Angel's dazed expression, as if he'd never stepped foot inside the hotel lobby before. He'd been like this ever since she'd picked him up outside the retirement community across from the gym.

"Angel." She snapped, stopping short and using her fingers to literally snap him to attention. "Did you listen to a word I said? Stop avoiding the issue—you have to talk to Fred before things get really awkward around here."

"Talk to Fred." He echoed as if she was speaking a foreign tongue.

"Just be honest—you're not like other guys. Blah, blah, blah." Cordelia clarified. "I mean, you could try using the workplace as an excuse, but it'll probably sound like the lie that it is because of me and Doyle."

"You and… Doyle." Angel repeated with a slight air of disappointment—as he looked at her she couldn't help but notice that his eyes never bothered to rise above her neckline. "Figures."

"Um, hello. My eyes are up here." She reminded him, gesturing away from her cleavage. "Geez, Angel. What's gotten into you? I've had these puppies since I was fifteen and you pick _today_ to notice them?"

"Am I interrupting something?" It was Doyle's voice that announced his arrival. He swept into the lobby from the recesses of the reception area, a quizzical, yet slightly amused, expression in place. It suggested that he'd heard at least some of the preceding conversation and was more than a little curious about the context.

"Just Angel being weirder than usual." Cordelia explained flippantly, turning her eyes toward her boyfriend. "Did you have any luck at the hotels?"

"Nothing aside from a bunch o' hefty bills—these dead guys were living it up prior to going kerplooey." Doyle responded, referring to their search for information on the mysterious case of the collapsing bodies. "I'm guessing the gym was a bust?"

"Totally busty—and I do mean that in the literal sense." She answered, meaningfully peering at Angel through the corner of her eye. Having had more than enough of his avoidance tactics and randomly lecherous behavior, she hitched a thumb in the vampire's direction. "I give up, he's all yours."

With that, Cordelia sassily crossed to the main staircase and began ascending toward the second floor. Doyle appreciatively watched her go, a small smile playing on his lips… until he realized Angel was doing the very same thing.

Okay, so maybe he _hadn't_ just been hearing things when he'd walked in.

"Ah… I know the view's spectacular, man. Can't say I blame ya for looking, but think ya can make it a little less obvious?" Doyle recommended, eying his friend questioningly. "Outta respect."

"Respect… for you?" Angel wondered, sounding like he was not entirely certain, and then looked down at his clothes, fingering his long jacket. "Because I'm… _obviously_."

"Mostly for her." Doyle clarified, giving Angel a beleaguered headshake. "I see what she meant—ya running low on your blood supply or something?"

"No, I'm fine. It's just..." Angel paused, taking a hesitant step toward Doyle and then seeming to second-guess himself. He moved farther away again, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Um. We've gotta talk."

"Anytime, man." Doyle said easily, folding his arms over his chest and listening intently. "What's up?"

"This is harder than I thought." Angel muttered, seemingly unable to meet Doyle's eyes. "See, I've got nothing against you personally…" He trailed off, bringing a hand to his chin to scratch it as he clearly considered his next words.

"That's… good." Doyle replied stiltedly. "O'course, saying a thing like that makes me think there _is_ something personal, yeah?"

"But there shouldn't be!" Angel exclaimed with an unusual amount of emphasis. "What I'm trying to say is—it's just not right for two men who work together to be involved."

"Involved in what exactly?" Doyle asked, his eyes narrowing in utter bewilderment.

Angel kept his eyes focused on the tips of his shoes. "You know… _involved_."

"Ah. You're not saying…?" Doyle's brow arched skyward as he caught Angel's meaning.

"So, we're agreed?" Angel clarified with a sigh of relief. "Friends. Nothing more. Should we shake on it?" The vampire plunged a hand outward for Doyle to shake, and Doyle dumbly extended his own hand to accept without really knowing why he was doing it.

He felt like he'd missed something important prior to having this conversation. "Wait… is this about the time I said I was a little attracted? Did Cordy tell ya that?"

"Hey, Doyle!" Gunn interrupted, bursting through the front doors with two giant take-out bags wrapped under each of his arms. Crossing directly to the reception area, he plopped the bags on the front counter. "Glad you're here, man—I got more tacos than Fred could possibly finish alone."

"I wouldn't be too sure o' that." Doyle responded, welcoming the distraction. He needed something relatively normal to prove he hadn't just entered the twilight zone. "I've seen that girl put away more than a dozen o' those things without even breaking a sweat."

"Fred's a... ha!" Angel whooped with laughter, sounding both surprised and tremendously relieved. "And you're… Cordelia's boyfriend, _Doyle_. Have I told you what a lucky man you are? She's a real looker, that one. Bet she's a firecracker in the sack, huh?"

"Uh huh." Doyle answered uncertainly, his eyes narrowing as they returned to the vampire at his side. It looked like Angel, it smelled like Angel, it even wore Angel's over-abundance of hair gel, but that's where the similarities seemed to stop. "Sure you're alright, man?"

A wide smile suddenly broke out across Angel's face, and on him it looked decidedly creepy. "Actually, now that you mention it, I'm starved!"

Angel practically skipped over to the front counter, to help himself to some of the tacos Gunn was unloading from the take-out bags.

Doyle observed his friend's flagrant out-of-character behavior with unease. Regardless of what his physical senses were telling him, there was a sixth sense contradicting all that he could see and smell and hear. Angel may be Angel, but he didn't _seem_ like Angel.

And in Doyle's experience, that was a rather precarious problem to have.


	13. Carpe Noctem, Part 3

**13\. Carpe Noctem, Part III**

"Yeah, Penny—consider my arm twisted. Just not in the literal sense, I hope." Doyle spoke into his cellphone as he paced outside the wrought iron gates that led into the Hyperion. "Remember, this ain't about the money for me; I'm playing for the intel… no, no I'm not saying I won't put money _down_ , I'm just saying—" He caught sight of a slim female figure heading toward him from the edge of the street corner. "Listen, just save me the seat, yeah? Gotta run."

He hastily hung up the phone and jammed it into his jacket pocket as Cordelia approached. "Hey." He greeted her warmly. "Where's Angel? I thought he was going with ya to the escort service."

"Actually, that's just what I told you so _you_ wouldn't come." Cordelia replied breezily, earning a frown from Doyle at her contrarian behavior.

"Well, how'd it go?" He asked reluctantly.

She twisted her lips into disapproval as the light from a nearby streetlamp illuminated her expression. "The movie should've been titled _Pretty Skanky Woman_ , if you ask me."

"I coulda taken the job off your hands, darlin'." Doyle replied with a shrug. "You were the one who decided all men were pigs—including yours truly."

"All men _are_ pigs." Cordelia maintained. " _Especially_ yours truly."

"After all this time together ya still don't trust me?" Doyle asked with mock-insult, holding his hands over his heart in melodramatic fashion. "That hurts."

"I trust that you'd never do anything to jeopardize our relationship." She assured him, sidling into his personal space and giving the tip of his nose a little tap; the smile on her face told him she was mostly joking—but only mostly. "But your eyeballs have a mind of their own."

He cocked his head to the side, accepting the charges with an impish grin.

At that moment, he caught a barely audible sound wafting across the courtyard, through the ivy-covered iron bars beside them. "Did ya hear that?" He queried, holding a finger to his lips and briefly closing his eyes as he listened more intently. There it was again, the slightest sound—like a sniffle. And now it was accompanied by the salty whiff of a human tear, as well as the scent of the human who shed said tear.

"I don't hear anything." Cordelia replied, following his gaze as it shifted toward the dark courtyard beyond the front gates. She tried to see what no human eye could possibly see with the absence of proper lighting. "Is someone there?" She whispered, worried that his sudden attention-shift was due to an unseen threat.

"It's Fred." He answered, meandering toward the front gates, his hand naturally capturing Cordelia's in his own as he moved. "I think she's crying." He led Cordelia into the front courtyard of Hyperion, searching for the girl he could now hear whimpering somewhere in the dense shadows.

A few steps inside and they found her, curled in a dark corner. She was wearing a long floral dress and her hair was partially tied back, away from her face. She looked quite becoming, and wholesome… and utterly devastated.

"Fred. What's wrong?" Cordelia asked, unlinking her hand from Doyle's in order to drop down beside the other woman. She slung an arm around Fred's shoulders in a comforting gesture. "What happened?"

Doyle squatted down in front of the two brunettes, trying to get a better read on Fred's face. She kept it downturned, lifting a slender finger to brush away some of the tears from her cheeks. "It was my fault." She said in a strangled voice. "I forgot to knock, because, y'know, I didn't have a door for so long." She let out an abrupt sob, which she tried to suppress with her hand.

Reaching out, Doyle lay a supportive hand on her shoulder beside the one Cordelia had already placed there. "It's okay, love. Whatever happened—I'm sure we can work it out. Just need a few details, yeah?"

"He called me sweetheart." She choked in reply. "But it's just an expression, isn't it? Like when a waitress calls you honey, it doesn't mean you're special or anything. It's just a word, right? Sweetheart."

"Oh. This is about Angel." Cordelia guessed, her eyes flitting over to Doyle's with a look of remorse. "He finally talked to you, didn't he? Listen, I know it hurts, but there are other fish in the sea—fish who aren't vampires with an overly complicated relationship history."

"It wasn't really the talking that upset me." Fred admitted, wiping her nose on the back of her hand as she tried to get her sniffling under control. "It was the other part—the kissing part."

Doyle's jaw dropped open in shock, but it was Cordelia's voice that filled the space. "I'm sorry—say what now?!" She asked, sitting bolt upright and removing her arm from Fred's shoulders as if it had been burned. She was no longer the least bit comforting as she spat her disbelieving words at the petite brunette beside her. "Angel kissed you?!"

"It was more than just kissing—there was groping and possibly some… grinding." Fred answered feebly, her eyes finally lifting to see Cordelia's confounded expression and then skimming over to to Doyle's, which was equally as disturbed. "Not me. _Her_." Fred clarified, her eyes steering toward another figure who'd just emerged from the hotel, stumbling through the darkness.

Doyle stood up swiftly, coming face to face with a disheveled looking woman who was blotting at a bloody wound on the side of her neck, and holding shut her unbuttoned blouse. "Oh my God!" came the horrified gasp from Cordelia, who was now also scrambling to her feet, leaving Fred seated alone on the cobblestone ground beneath their feet.

"Lilah." Doyle identified the woman, a scowl involuntarily settling onto his face.

For the second time that day, his brain was having some real trouble processing the sights and sounds he was presented with. The picture told a pretty scary story all on its own. But, the much more terrifying part was what he could smell—Angel, all over her. "What the hell's going on here?!"

"You tell me!" Lilah spat back at Doyle, looking as if she was every bit as horrified as he was, which frankly, wasn't possible under the circumstances. "I came here to make amends!" She insisted, hastily buttoning one of the only remaining buttons on her blouse. "I did a nice thing—making your 57 code violations go away. So what if it was all in the interest of screwing over my colleague. It still benefits your company!" She side-stepped around Doyle, giving herself a clear path to the exit. "I don't know what game Angel is playing, but it'll be the last time he plays it with me!"

Lilah stomped away, leaving the sound of rapidly receding heels in her wake.

"I guess they had a fight." Fred sniffled from her place on the floor. She pulled her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms around them.

"Was that a bite mark?!" Cordelia shrieked, reaching out to grip Doyle tightly by the bicep. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she looked ready to bolt. "Did I see a bite mark on her neck?! Please tell me this isn't what it looks like?!"

"And smells like." Doyle confirmed regretfully. He wasn't yet convinced it was _exactly_ what it looked like—or smelled like, for that matter. But he couldn't think of any other reasonable explanation, aside from the one screaming from his gut. "This isn't Angel."

"No, it isn't." Cordelia agreed, unhanding Doyle and leaning down to coax Fred up to her feet. "It's Angelus—which is why we need to get the hell out of here!"

"Angelus?" Fred uttered with confusion as she rose with Cordelia's assistance. "Who's that?"

"No, I don't think it's him either." Doyle corrected, preventing them from running off into the night before he could piece things together.

"Um, last time I checked Angel only had two alter egos." Cordelia rebutted. "One that doesn't enjoy torturing and killing all his friends, and the one that just got groiny with Lilah freaking Morgan!"

"Yeah, but Lilah left here _alive_." Doyle pointed out. "And Fred here, she's also very much alive. Which makes me think… there's someone in there we haven't been introduced to yet."

* * *

"I knew it." Doyle made the declaration to the vampire seated quietly at his side.

He had found Angel in the rear courtyard of the hotel, reflecting on the odd events of the last 48 hours. Promptly, he had taken the empty seat beside his friend, assuming that his company was always welcome, even under the current circumstances. Angel's prolonged silence sufficed as confirmation that the assumption was accurate.

Turning to his stoic companion, Doyle chattered on. "I mean, not in the sense that I had any clue you were trapped in some poor, ol' geezer's body—but I knew ya weren't yourself."

"Yeah?" Angel asked with a soft chuckle. "Was it the making out with Lilah that tipped you off?"

"Actually, it was the ogling Cordy like a piece of meat." Doyle clarified, causing Angel to cringe at the embarrassment of what his body had done, while his mind had been trapped elsewhere. "Not your style, man—least, not while I could catch ya."

Angel slowly reached up and felt the prominent lump on his forehead that had been issued by Fred right before he'd returned to his own body. "I had this coming, didn't I?"

"Not _you_ exactly." Doyle snickered and raised his brows in confirmation. "Look at the bright side. Ya don't have to worry 'bout her little crush anymore. I'd say that's good and truly dead."

"You told her." Angel guessed, dropping his hands to his lap and clasping them together. "About the curse… and everything?"

"I let Cordy handle the specifics." Doyle replied. "Figured it'd be slightly less awkward woman to woman, yeah?"

"Right." Angel said with a grateful nod. Then he paused and wrinkled his brow. "She didn't say the thing about me being a Eunuch, did she?"

"Ah… I think she managed to avoid using that word." Doyle answered, scratching his head thoughtfully. "But, y'know, Fred understood. Gave Cordy an earful 'bout the poetry of it all—the fact that ya can have pretty much anything you want _other_ than love."

"Yeah." Angel agreed, his brow creasing at an entirely different angle as he gave that statement further consideration.

Doyle leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs and eying Angel knowingly. "Tell me the truth, man—after tonight, aren't ya just a _little_ _bit_ convinced mortality's overrated?" He pictured the feeble old man who'd been using witchcraft in order to relive his glory days. Now he was back in his wheelchair inside the old age home where he was sure to spend the remainder of his days. If it weren't for the fact that he was basically a serial killer, Doyle would've felt really bad for the guy. "Maybe being human isn't all it's cracked up to be. Ya hit a certain point and it's all aches and pains and a dozen medications a day—not to mention the high probability you'll end up in diapers."

"That depends." Angel said evasively. A slight smile appeared on his lips, visible even in the shadows that blanketed them. "Does your offer to room together at the old folks home still stand?"

Doyle felt a broad grin break over his own face as he recalled the conversation in question. It had come on the heels of Doyle's own brush with death, right after Wesley had finally translated the Shanshu prophecy correctly. "That's not the type o' thing a fella'd go back on."

He would have elaborated if it weren't for the door to the lobby flying open and Cordelia bounding outside with undiluted joy.

"I just got off the phone with Willow!" She squealed, jumping up and down excitedly. "It's Buffy—she's _alive_!"

* * *

 **A/N - To all the folks in the US, have a happy July 4th weekend! To everyone else, well, I hope the completion of this chapter aids in your enjoyment of the non-holiday weekend. Cheers!**


	14. Fredless, Part 1

**14\. Fredless, Part I**

"What about the pointy one?" Cordelia posed her question as she leaned at the reception counter, stifling a yawn. She idly scribbled some barely legible notes on the clipboard in front of her.

"Wanna be a little more specific?" Gunn asked, eyeing the pile of pointy weaponry that lay scattered at his feet rather than hanging in its usual place inside the weapons cabinet. He and Wesley had been sifting through the seemingly endless heap of metal for nearly an hour as Cordelia barked unclear instructions at them from across the room. "I got a lotta points over here."

"The one that looks like it was left in the rain too many times." Cordelia clarified, thrusting the eraser-side of her pencil at the object she identified as both pointy and rusty and, therefore, expendable. "With the ugly thing on the handle."

Wesley spotted it first, swiftly hoisting the aged weapon from the middle of the pile. He twisted it back and forth under the light, admiring the intricate pattern-work of the 'ugly thing' Cordelia had used to identify it. "Ah, yes. The Prothgarian broadsword." He held it high, brandishing the weapon for Cordelia's further inspection. "That isn't rust, that's actually the natural bronze finish—quite a remarkable piece."

"Yeah, nifty." Cordelia summarily replied, jotting down something vaguely resembling the name Wesley had given the item. "You can toss it in the donation pile."

 _"_ _Excuse me?!"_ Wesley gasped in abject horror. "But, but—it's complete with a third-century ceremonial Sancteus dagger. You wouldn't dare!"

A hand swept into Cordelia's field of vision, depositing a piping hot mug of coffee onto the countertop. It was accompanied by Doyle's amiable voice. "Not that I'm taking sides here—but where exactly do ya plan on donating a thing like that?" He casually leaned beside her as he made the inquiry, his own cup of brew in hand.

"The Salvation _Army_. Duh." Cordelia replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

Doyle sputtered a bit as he swallowed his hot beverage, trying to keep from spewing it all over the place as he cracked up. Meanwhile, Wesley sputtered for a whole different reason, finding it impossible to fathom how Cordelia could ever let this ancient hunk of metal go, when it was clearly superior to all the other ancient hunks of metal they owned.

Gunn, on the other hand, had no such qualms—he yanked the rust-colored sword out of Wesley's hand and dropped it unceremoniously into a trash bag with a loud clatter. "Next." He demanded. "I'd like to finish this while I'm still pretty."

A small, muffled voice wafted up from somewhere below the front side of the reception counter, giving pause to Wesley's further objections. "What time is it?"

Doyle had to lean forward, his chest balancing across the countertop, in order to see the top of Fred's head. She sat on the floor fussing with a peculiar contraption she'd cobbled together from several other available home appliances. He wasn't sure what the device was supposed to be, but he was reasonably certain it wasn't a toaster.

"Three minutes since the last time you asked." Cordelia responded huffily, doodling two stick-figures and a stick-figure-cat onto the margin of her checklist. She judged her handiwork, wondering how she could add Dennis to the picture; absently she continued speaking. "He'll be back when he's back." She paused then, shuddering as if to shake away the cobwebs. "Am I having déjà vu?"

Popping upward, Fred suddenly appeared in the previously empty space directly in front of the reception counter, causing both Cordelia and Doyle to jolt back in surprise. Doyle managed to do so without spilling a drop of his coffee. Cordelia's hand slipped, leaving a stray pencil mark across her drawing. She scowled with disapproval.

"Sorry!" Fred chirped, flashing them both an apologetic grin as she rested her elbows on the edge of the counter. "I was just curious, I guess. About Angel and the girl with the goofy name. Are they, y'know… like you and Doyle?"

"Well…" Cordelia pursed her lips together as she took a moment to consider the question. "I guess you could say that." She shrugged before continuing her thought. "If you expand the age gap by a couple hundred years, add a few fights to the death—one of which, Buffy _won_ , by the way—and then subtract all the sex, whimsy and the general ability to pass for a normal human couple."

"Like looking in a mirror." Doyle quipped, slinging an arm around Cordy's shoulders and giving her an affectionate squeeze.

"So… do you think she and Angel will get back together?" Fred asked, worrying at her bottom lip. "Just like you guys did?"

"I never say 'never' when true love is involved," Doyle said noncommittally. "But in their case…"

Cordelia let out a loud burst of laughter, interrupting Doyle's relatively diplomatic answer. He removed the arm he'd previously slung around her shoulder and jiggled a finger in his left ear to reduce the ringing.

"When hell freezes over!" Cordelia snorted. "No, wait... Probably not even then."

"But, why not?" Fred wondered, the curiosity in her eyes growing along with their circumference. "Doyle said 'true love.' Shouldn't that be more powerful than normal, every day love—if any love were to conquer all it should be that kind of love. Right?"

"It's rather complicated, Fred." Wesley interjected, lifting another sword from the pile for keener inspection. Gunn was leaning his weight against the side of the weapons cabinet, his arms folded over his chest. He couldn't have looked more bored if he'd tried.

"Let me break it down for you." Cordelia offered, with a flippant wave of her hand. "Their love doesn't just conquer all—it has a tendency to _end_ it. Trust me, the farther they are from each other, the safer _we_ are."

"Not that there's any problem with them being together right now." Doyle hastily added. "I mean… I'm sure they're keeping things very… ah, cordial."

"Just like you guys in Pylea." Fred sighed, a dreamy smile blossoming across her face. "And neither one of you even died or anything."

Doyle gulped audibly as Cordelia slowly lifted her head and the two of them locked eyes uneasily. "We are really, really stupid for letting him go alone, aren't we?"

"He wouldn't." Doyle insisted, the lines in his forehead multiplying by the second. "Right?"

"Wouldn't what?" Angel's voice broke the moment of tension. The vampire strode noiselessly into the lobby with his hands in his pockets, coming to a halt beside the reception area.

"You're back!" Fred exclaimed, clasping her hands together and grinning at maximum capacity.

"And you're not evil?" Cordelia asked, warily eying Angel up and down. "Let me see your pants." She leaned forward, noting that his pants were neither skin tight, nor made of black leather. Her grin broadened to match Fred's. "Nope. Not evil. Welcome back!"

"How'd it go?" Gunn inquired, still leaning against the wooden cabinet. He looked slightly more interested in the conversation now that Angel was a part of it, but not by much.

"I think Cordelia covered the important parts." Angel replied with little humor.

"Hey, man. If ya needa talk about anything—anything at all—I'm here for ya." Doyle reminded his friend, taking a few steps out from behind the reception counter, abandoning his coffee mug in his wake.

"Thanks." Angel responded. "I really don't want to talk about it."

"But you have to tell Doyle—he's your best friend!" Cordelia blurted, as if Angel's reticence to talk was somehow a slight on her. Seeing Doyle's eyes narrow, she quickly covered for her blatant nosiness. "…which is why you can tell him anything and he'd absolutely never share it with another living soul. Not even one that he lives with and also happens to work here."

Now both Angel and Doyle were openly frowning at her for entirely different reasons. Cordelia flashed them one of her signature smiles, the picture of innocence… that all too quickly became a grimace!

The silent alarm bells began to clamor in her head; she blindly reached out, attempting to brace herself against the side of the counter. Less than a second later, her body rocked forward—her nervous center hijacked by the latest message from the Powers That Be.

Through the violent waves of pain, she saw a shop, decorated in pretty pink pastels and creamy beiges. The sweet taste of cream and sugar filled her mouth all too briefly, quickly replaced by the suffocating stench of demon; it smelled like sewer, which was probably its natural habitat. There was screaming—not hers, but she may have been screaming, too. It was hard to tell. She felt a bolt of pain as a victim was hurled across the room, crash-landing inside one of the glass display cases. The glass shattered, slicing and pricking into her skin—the victim's skin, rather. The fear welled up in her chest, making it hard to breathe—

And then it was over.

Cordelia blinked rapidly as she acclimated back to her physical surroundings, leaving the feelings of the would-be victims behind. She discovered right away that she hadn't fell to the floor or face-planted onto the countertop. Instead, she was still fully upright, encircled by two sets of strong and steady arms. Thanks to their supernatural reflexes, Doyle and Angel had both managed to catch her where she stood.

"Are you okay?" Angel asked gently.

"Ice cream." She answered without actually hearing his question—she assumed he'd asked what she saw; that was always the first question.

"Oh." Angel's brow furrowed with bewilderment. He stared over Cordelia's shoulder, addressing the half-demon bracing her from behind. "Does ice cream help with the visions?"

"I tasted it." She said in a clipped tone, reaching up to massage her throbbing temples. It was a gesture she'd seen Doyle perform countless times; now she knew why. "The Haagen Dazs a few blocks from here, with the pink awning and ridiculously long lines—there's some big, stinky sewer-demon hiding in the freezer. It seemed..." She tried to make sense of the jumbled puzzle pieces that had danced through her skull; they didn't all seem to fit together. "Disoriented—like it's not supposed to be there. And it's about to go berserk on a bunch of paying customers!"

It was hard for her to ascertain whether she was confused about the vision because the vision was confusing, or if she was merely not as adept at solving the riddles as Doyle had been. They say practice makes perfect—not that she really wanted a whole lot of practice.

"Doesn't sound good for business." Doyle's voice was low and close to her ear; his hands resting steadfastly on the sides of her waist. She could tell he was trying to remain as calm and soothing as possible, knowing what would come next.

Cordelia felt it then—the urgency building in her chest, like an aftershock of the vision itself. First came the pain and the clues; then came the feeling that she'd burst if they didn't stop this horrible thing from happening. They had to stop it!

"I'm on it." Angel declared, giving Cordelia's shoulder a reassuring pat. He made sure she was securely in Doyle's grip before turning to face the two other men in the room, standing amidst multiple piles of—. "Um… what are you guys doing with all the weapons?"

"Gunn, why don't you go with Angel?" Wesley suggested, ignoring Angel's question and simultaneously releasing Gunn from his purgatory. He shot a furtive glance in Doyle's direction, assuming the half-Brachen would prefer to stay behind with Cordelia rather than play Robin to Angel's Batman.

"Don't gotta ask twice, boss." Gunn said, eagerly snagging his trusty homemade axe from the corner. It was his weapon of choice, despite the more advanced arsenal at his disposal. Axe in hand, Gunn fell into step with Angel as the vampire rounded the reception counter. The two men strode toward the front door like the big, bad-asses they were— and then abruptly came up short.

A bubbly brunette had bounded into their path, wearing an overly exuberant expression. "Me, too!" Fred peeped, all smiles. "Not for the fighting part—but I could help warn the customers. A-and maybe… protect the ice cream?"

Cordelia wasn't sure if she was hearing correctly through the throbbing. She tried to enjoy the sensation of Doyle gently massaging her back, but the pain hadn't receded enough for enjoyment. Was Fred actually volunteering to face a demon? Or did she just want a sundae?

"Uh…" Angel didn't speak right away, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. He shot a quizzical look over his shoulder at Wesley, hoping the other man would deter her.

Which he did in his most diplomatic tone. "Fred, I appreciate your willingness to pitch in, but I don't think it's such a good idea."

"Nah, it's a'right, English." Gunn piped in, with a half-smirk on his face. He, more than anyone, seemed to appreciate Fred's unpredictability. "I'm sure we can take out the big bad beastie _and_ get the lady a sugar cone."

"Oh… well." Wesley cleared his throat and fussed with his glasses. "If you really wish to go—"

"I do!" Fred squealed, pointing toward the various piles of weapons. "Should I…? No, probably not."

"Just stay behind us." Angel deadpanned as he rapidly proceeded to the exit.

"I'll just stay behind you!" Fred reiterated with a nervous giggle. "And protect the ice cream."

Gunn was still grinning at Fred as he hiked his axe over his shoulder and followed in the vampire's footsteps. Once he had passed, Fred about-faced and scampered along behind them.

Their exit left a dull silence hanging over the lobby.

Wesley stood in place, brow furrowed deeply. He didn't approve of Fred going along on the job, but he couldn't very well forbid her from going. Technically, she didn't even work there. He sighed heavily and shifted his attention to the two individuals who were still present and did, in fact, work there.

"Alright, Princess, let's sit ya down, while I grab all the necessary pain relievers and such." Doyle instructed, gently coaxing Cordelia toward the red sofa on the other side of the reception counter. "Aspirin, ice, maybe a little more caffeine—y'know, that's supposed to do wonders for migraines. Or so I've heard; can't say it ever helped me half as much as the whiskey."

Cordelia had been gripping Doyle's shirtsleeve as he helped he shuffle along, but all at once, she caught herself. Unclenching the poly-cotton blend of his shirt, she casually brushed Doyle's helping hands from her body and flashed him a tight smile. "It's only a headache, Doyle. My legs work just fine, thanks."

She proceeded to prove her statement by navigating the rest of the way to the lounger on her own. It was important that she show him she could handle her new duty just as well as he had.

Better even. She could probably do better if she really tried.

And then maybe he'd stop with the sad puppy routine. Sad overbearing puppy, to be exact.

Sinking down into the plush red cushions, Cordelia closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. "See." She murmured more to herself than to the others. "Totally fine."

It was a bit of an overstatement, actually. She wasn't exactly "fine" by anyone's standards. Her legs had felt wobbly as she walked, and even with her lids closed, her eyeballs vibrated with the throbbing in her head. It was a terrible feeling, made even worse by all the turmoil she felt roiling around in her gut. If she'd been less dazed, she would've volunteered to go with Angel, Gunn and Fred to save the victims and destroy the demon firsthand. It's what Doyle probably would have done.

She could _definitely_ do better.

"Maybe it's time to stop playing with Angel's weapons and go back to finding a way to fix this, yeah?" It was Doyle's slightly-raised, guttural voice that summoned Cordelia from her brief moment of self-reflection. Apparently her boyfriend had morphed from sad puppy to rabid bulldog in the span of thirty seconds. "Or should I start interviewing Phalangoid demons to speed up the process?!"

Cordelia reopened her eyes, plastered a false smile onto her lips and let her singsong voice carry across the room to Doyle's waiting ears. "Hey, sweetie… didn't you say something about aspirin?"

Every muscle in Doyle's body tensed as he froze in place. It was probably the word "sweetie" that had gotten to him—she never called him that. At least, not in a sincere way. He slowly turned his attention back to her. "Ah… yeah, coming right up, love." He politely replied, as if he hadn't been growling at Wesley seconds earlier. He hurried off in the direction of the kitchen to procure the aspirin and other anesthetics.

Wesley's mouth opened and closed in Doyle's wake, but no sound came out.

"Don't sweat it, Wes." Cordelia stated, lifting her fingers to her forehead and kneading them into her skull in rhythmic fashion. With Doyle out of the room, she could drop the façade. "He doesn't mean it… I mean, he _does_ , but he wouldn't actually do it… I think."

"Cordelia…" Wesley said her name in a pitying voice that would have grated her nerves if it had been anyone _other_ than Wesley saying it. "Perhaps you should take the rest of the afternoon off?" He was trying to be helpful. "I can finish the inventory on my own—I'll even put everything back, just the way you like it."

"Shhh, keep your voice down." She pleaded, waving her right hand in a downward motion.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry." Wesley replied, dropping his voice into a whisper and stepping closer to where Cordelia sat bracing her heavy head in hand. "Does the noise make it hurt very badly?"

"No, I just don't want Doyle to hear you." She groaned, peeking over at the kitchen doorway to make sure Doyle wouldn't witness her hunched position. "Just give me another minute…"

* * *

"It's been over a week, Penny—I thought ya said ya owed me a favor." Doyle complained into the mobile phone he had pressed up against his ear. "I'm looking to cash in A-S-A-P!"

He was alone in the back alley of the Hyperion, pacing like a madman. It was one of the few places where he knew he could conduct a private conversation. Mostly because of its close proximity to the dumpster. He didn't want to leave the hotel premises altogether, not when Cordelia was still inside, looking like she'd been run over by a dump truck. He didn't doubt that she felt like death warmed over—he'd been there enough times to know the feeling. But she was far too proud to admit it, much less go upstairs and rest—no, instead, she insisted on pretending that everything was business as usual.

As if Doyle, of all people, wouldn't know the truth behind her façade.

The others might have fallen for her act. Cordelia was actually a very good actress when she was playing herself. But Doyle knew her better than the others; he knew all her tells, including the ones that meant she was pretending to be something she wasn't. In this case, perfectly normal.

"Ah, well, I appreciate ya considering my physical well-being and all." Doyle continued speaking into the tiny receiver in his palm. "But my neck is _my_ neck and if I'm willing to risk it, I don't see what business that is of yours. If it's about the money, I'll pay up front—"

Doyle whipped around to pace in the opposite direction, and nearly walked straight into the rear exit door of the hotel as it was abruptly flung open. A frantic-looking brunette came barreling outside with no regard to where she was going. Her head wasn't even turned in his direction, which is why she careened directly into him, nearly causing him to drop the phone. "Oomph!"

"Oh!" Fred squeaked as her wide, fearful eyes landed on Doyle.

He managed to keep the phone in his grasp and stabilize both himself and the loose cannon that'd hit him. One of his hands remained on Fred's elbow as his pale eyes locked onto the wide circles of her dark orbs; he quickly absorbed the other pertinent details—namely, the overflowing bags she was loaded down with.

"Just call me when you've got a seat open for me, yeah?" Doyle spoke into the phone, keeping his eyes locked onto the woman he'd caught mid-escape. He hung up on Penny without hearing the other man's answer; he wasn't all that concerned with proper etiquette. "Hey, your folks are in there looking for ya." Doyle said, nodding toward the door that had just closed behind her. "But something tells me y'already know that."

Trish and Roger Burkle had shown up just a little while ago, affording Doyle the distraction he needed to slip out and call Penny. For the few brief minutes he'd met the Burkles, his impression was that they seemed about as normal as parents could be—all-American, apple pie. And very eager to see their daughter after all the years they'd spent thinking the worst. It was a letter from Fred that had brought them to L.A.—a letter without a return address. Translation: Fred had wanted them to know she was alive and well, but didn't want to actually see them. Clearly, that was still the case.

"I-I know." Fred stammered, looking apprehensively at the closed door Doyle had indicated. "It was nice of them to come… too bad I was just on my way out."

Doyle didn't move out of Fred's way, forcing her to step back, closer to the door she so clearly wanted to get far away from. "Just taking a casual stroll with all your earthly belongings? Wanna tell me what this is about?"

"Not really." She answered plainly, anxiously squirming in place, anticipating her escape. "Why don't you just let me go and pretend this never happened? A-and you'll never have to worry about me blabbing to Cordy about the suspicious phone call I just overheard."

A dry chuckle escaped Doyle's lips and he raised his brows. "Resorting to blackmail, huh? This is a lot more serious than I thought. Guess I'll have to accept your terms, darlin'. Though, I can assure ya—I only made that call for Cordy's sake."

"Sure, I get it." Fred replied, adjusting the shoulder strap of her bag. "You're searching for a way to get your visions back. You're just hiding in the alley, because… um, why are you hiding in the alley?" She waved a hand under her nose. "It stinks."

"'Cause Cordy doesn't like it when I dabble in the whole underworld thing—I know it's hard to believe by looking at me, but I wasn't always the upstanding citizen I am today." Doyle admitted, shoving his mobile phone in his jacket pocket. "There was some trouble a few years back, owing money to the wrong people and such. Let's just say, if it hadn't been for Angel's timely intervention, I probably would be down a few appendages. Not to mention, one neck."

"Oh. Wow." Fred said, looking genuinely surprised by this revelation. "No wonder Cordelia wouldn't approve—pretty sure she likes all your limbs where they are. And your neck."

Doyle nodded. "But, her life is more important than my limbs."

"It's kinda romantic when you put it like that." Fred decided, swaying a little as thoughts of dashing to freedom still danced through her head.

"What's say we go back inside and work on solving your problem, yeah?" Doyle suggested, flashing the dimple for good measure. "Mine'll keep 'til tomorrow."

She stumbled backward as he reached out for her arm, and her eyes once again reverted to 'frightened deer' status. "I-I cant." She emphasized, shaking her head back and forth insistently. "I can't see them. They can't see _me_."

"Yeah, okay." He said gently, holding up his hands in surrender and giving a slight nod to the mouth of the alley over his shoulder. "Let's you and me go somewhere else then."

"Somewhere else is good." She agreed, stepping forward without hesitation, and urging him to do the same. "I like somewhere else. Is it a specific-somewhere or an anywhere-somewhere?"

"Oh, there's a specific somewhere." He assured her as they both made their way to the sidewalk beyond the alley. "Specifically—somewhere we can both gain a little perspective."


	15. Fredless, Part 2

**15\. Fredless, Part II**

 _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Doyle shook out his fist—he'd pounded hard enough to put a crack in the damn door and only after a long, dramatic pause did the thing pop open, allowing he and Fred entrance into the shattered remains of what was once Caritas.

After descending the stairs into the sea of broken bottles and overturned chairs and tables, Doyle found the owner of the establishment standing behind the bar, wearing an extraordinarily unwelcoming expression along with a white, terrycloth robe. "Oh, it's you."

"You're smoking?" Doyle asked, noting an overflowing ashtray on top of a collapsed table, a still-smoldering butt perched on the side sending spirals of smoke into the air.

"You're judging?" Lorne retorted, casting a sideward glance at his other visitor, who was inspecting the surrounding wreckage with a look of sympathy. The demon's voice was slightly less brittle as he addressed her. "Hey, Fred."

"Did Gunn's old gang come back a second time?" She asked uncertainly. "Why's it still like this?"

"Oh, I don't know." Lorne said, waving his hand around what remained of his precious club. "I thought I might go in a new direction—for the next time a gang of demon-killers feel like holding a massacre. Gee, Doyle, do you have any other pals that wanna rain destruction on my club?"

"Don't tell me ya blame me for all this?" Doyle objected. "I was a hostage!"

Lorne sighed heavily, his demeanor becoming slightly less standoffish. "Forget it. Why don't we just skip ahead to Fred's air-raid siren of an aura. Just do me a favor, sweetie, don't start singing. My head's already killing me."

Doyle looked over at Fred, who gave him a melancholic half-smile and he turned back to the lanky green demon. Gesturing to the only table that wasn't upturned, Doyle pulled out a chair and plopped himself down. "We've come for some guidance… of the non-singing variety."

"Pull up a chair." Lorne said facetiously, seeing how Doyle had already done so. He begrudgingly navigated the wreckage on the floor in order to take an empty chair at the table Doyle had chosen for their little powwow. "Fred, you wanna start or should I?"

"Um... you?" She suggested anxiously, sidling into her own chair between the two demons. She sat leaning away from them, while Doyle did the opposite, his arms firmly planted on the table.

"In a word: _denial_." Lorne opened his hands as if it was the most obvious answer in the world, although, technically, no question had ever been asked.

"What is a river in Egypt, Alex?" Doyle wisecracked. "Hope you'll be giving the girl a little more than that, bud."

Lorne held up a hand to silence Doyle, and gave a little roll of his eyes. "Is this your counseling session or mine? Hold your Blarney Stones, we'll get to you next."

Doyle mouthed the word "me?" and directed his index finger into his own chest.

Having already dismissed the half-demon across from him, Lorne reached out to place a comforting hand on Fred's knee, which had been anxiously pumping up and down until that point. "You've convinced yourself it was all a bad dream—a nightmare. Something you read about in a storybook. And your folks—they're gonna pull back the curtain; make it all real. You're just not ready for that, are you sweet-pea?"

"They knew me—the _other_ me. From before all the portals and the monsters." Fred answered, her head bowing lower so her eyes were firmly planted on the cracked flooring beneath her feet. "If they see me now—see what's become of me… I-I didn't mean to get so lost."

"It's easier to be the person you are now, around people who never knew you before." Lorne completed the thought. "I know someone else at this table who can empathize."

Fred's head flitted upward and she locked eyes with Doyle. He'd been quietly listening as instructed, but he shifted in his seat as the spotlight moved in his direction. "Ah… yeah, I s'pose that's what brought me to Angel and Cordy in the first place—except in my case, there wasn't a portal and I _was_ the monster." He cleared his throat uncomfortably as he amended his previous statement. "Am."

"You never looked back?" Fred wondered, her eyes filled with curiosity and need—she _needed_ to be reassured that the choice she was making was the right one.

"Not for a long time, no." Doyle explained, giving her half the answer she'd expected. "But, eventually I learned… the people who loved ya before deserve a chance to know who ya are now, and to love that, too."

Fred blinked several times as she slowly digested Doyle's words, and a small smile flickered to her lips as she let it settle over her. Maybe she wouldn't run after all.

"That was well done." Lorne remarked, having sat back in his chair and shifted his focus to Doyle. "I think that means it's your turn. So, tell me—why the storm clouds in Doyle City?"

"I'm worried about Cordy." Doyle replied matter-of-factly.

" _Hey Jude, refrain. Don't carry the world upon your shoulders."_ Lorne sang, using his finger to prompt Doyle into joining. "C'mon, little buddy. It'll make this a whole lot easier. _"_

" _For well, y'know that it's a fool, who plays it cool."_ Doyle gruffly sang his reply, trying to keep from rolling his eyes. He wasn't sure what other answer Lorne was seeking, but he knew the psychic would easily tap into all the things he'd buried deep; the things Doyle hadn't yet acknowledged for himself.

It was a really annoying habit, actually.

"Ahhhh, there it is. So, now let's talk about what's _really_ got your boxers in a bunch." Lorne pressed, propping his elbow on the table as he leaned in. He paused for a moment, giving Doyle the room to speak up if he wished to, but when the other man remained silent, Lorne continued. "You feel unimportant. Like... you're not needed anymore."

"That's not true!" Doyle contended, his lips slipping downward into a frown. "I'm an integral part o' the group. Ask anyone—ask Angel."

"You remember the part where I'm an _empath_ , right?" Lorne reminded him, lifting a pointed brow. He sat back in his chair once again, gesturing lazily with his hand as he went on. "You used to be the connection to the mission—to the Powers, to the jobs, to the information. You were the one Angel relied on _,_ the one he _needed_. Now he has another connection, and you're left in the dark."

Swallowing against the thickness that had enveloped his throat, Doyle couldn't find an appropriate answer. There was no use in denying Lorne's astute observations, which were far more than mere observations. He'd been displaced. No, _replaced_. Without the visions he was no longer chosen, no longer the guide. He was just Angel's best friend and Cordelia's boyfriend. Just a half-demon with a boatload of old, un-repayable debts and a tendency to drink too much.

Cordelia was the guide; she was the one Angel needed. Just like Angel had needed her in that other place and time, after Doyle had died. This time Doyle wasn't dead, he was just obsolete.

Worse than that… he was the third wheel.

Words finally came, although they sounded partially strangled to Doyle's own ears. "Guess I'm just not used to feeling so… _disposable_."

"Right—and those visions were the _only_ reason Angel ever needed you." Lorne derided, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "We both know that was never true. And as for the impeccable Ms. Chase, well..."

"She's never needed me." Doyle filled in the blank.

Lorne gave a fairly neutral shrug, making it unclear whether he agreed or disagreed with that statement. "She loves you, which I think is more important."

Fred spoke up then, reminding Doyle she had quietly bore witness to his admission. There was more certainty in her voice than Doyle had ever heard before. "It doesn't matter if you have the visions or Cordy has 'em—both of you are important. Vital even. You two are the heart of the group—two halves of a whole. A body can't live with half a heart, now can it?"

"Ah, no… not any bodies I know." Doyle agreed, marveling at Fred's perspective and how he fit into it. He allowed himself to chuckle. "Then again, I'm betting Wesley could tell us about a few demon-types who could do such a thing."

"That's why he's the brains." Fred conceded with a laugh. "And Gunn's the muscle."

"That'd make Angel the soul, which seems appropriate." Doyle offered, sketching the rest of their unusual family portrait in his mind. "What about you, love?"

It was meant to be an easy question, but it caused the smile on her face to shrivel rapidly. "Oh. Um, I-I…" She stumbled over her words and then her smile returned, but this one only lifted half her mouth. "I should probably go home with my folks. Where monsters won't try and eat me on a nightly basis."

Doyle's brow furrowed as he processed her response. On the one hand, he was glad she was willing to speak to her parents; on the other, he hadn't expected her to pick up and leave. Maybe his pep talk had been a little too convincing.

Or… maybe she would be safer in Texas. One less person Doyle had to worry about saving from a potentially grim future.

"Looks like my work here is done." Lorne said, interrupting Doyle's reverie by thumping the table and then pushing out his chair with a loud screech. "I've got some wallowing in self-pity to do. I trust you two can see yourselves out."

* * *

Doyle, Cordelia, Wesley and Gunn stood side-by-side with their backs to the reception counter, lined up before an imaginary firing squad. Waiting for Fred to say her goodbyes didn't feel all that different from a firing squad. Something was about to end; not a life, but _something_.

They all watched expectantly as Fred descended the main staircase with Angel trailing behind, carrying her suitcase. The vampire hung back as Fred made it to the bottom, flashing a half-smile toward her parents, Roger and Trish. They were patiently waiting beside the large circular sofa wearing much broader smiles.

As normal folks went, the Burkles were way above average in Doyle's opinion. Not only were they over the moon that their little girl would be returning home to Texas with them, but they'd also fully accepted every aspect of the bizarre journey that had brought Fred to the here and now. They didn't even seem all that fazed by the Angel Investigations business model—in fact, they'd helped dispose of a rather ferocious insect-like demon who'd hijacked the group on their way back to the hotel.

Stepping up to the receiving line, Fred fidgeted as she spoke. "You know, in the shower I had all these pretty things I was gonna say and I was gonna be all fancy and... aw, hell." She paused and her eyes darted briefly toward her mom and dad. "I mean heck."

Without further preamble, Fred rushed forward, throwing her arms around Gunn's neck in one fluid motion. He caught her and embraced her tightly in return. It was a long hug and although Gunn was generally the strong, stoic type, Doyle could see that the big man got a little choked up. Clearing his throat roughly, Gunn released Fred, allowing her to move on to the next person in line.

That person was Wesley, who offered his own arms for a hug. It seemed the thing to do, after all. But this goodbye didn't go quite as smoothly as the previous one. Both Fred and Wesley danced around awkwardly, trying to figure out whose arm should go where—a few tedious seconds had ticked by before they successfully made body to body contact. Doyle shook his head, thinking there had to be a metaphor somewhere in that display.

Next up, was Cordelia, who Doyle could hear whisper to the other girl as the two embraced. "Between you and me, I'm almost a little jealous." He was pretty sure he understood her meaning—he'd learned by now that Cordelia's parents had done little for their daughter aside from give her life and as many material possessions as money could buy… until the money ran out. Then, they gave her nothing and she, in turn, wanted nothing from them. Not even the occasional phone call.

Doyle watched as Fred let go of his girlfriend and turned her large doe eyes in his direction. He opened his arms wide, and found them rapidly filled with Fred. "Don't forget what I said." She mumbled into his shoulder, which made him cling to her even harder.

How could he ever forget the sage advice of Winifred Burkle?

As their hug came to its completion and they pulled apart, he placed his hands on her slender shoulders, looked her straight in the eye and returned the favor. "As a matter o' fact, I've given it a lotta thought…" He gave her a friendly wink. "And I'm not entirely convinced a body can live without a Fred."

"Oh." She gulped back tears. "Thanks for saying that."

He could see that his words had filled some empty place inside her. Even so, she turned away from him and approached Angel, gazing up at the handsome man who'd saved her from the monsters, putting an end to her five-year nightmare. "Thank you. For everything."

Angel soundlessly held out her suitcase, which she accepted. "Bye, Fred."

Fred flashed the big guy one last smile, before turning to her parents who had seemed quite moved by the lengthy goodbye procession.

"We better go before I get all runny." Fred said, leading the way toward the front doors, pausing for one more wave before she disappeared.

A long, silent beat passed after the front doors swung closed. No one moved; no one spoke. The sharp sting of goodbye turned to a throbbing ache of continuing absence. Fred had quickly become an integral part of their little family. The little sister they never knew they wanted until she was there, and then they couldn't imagine her ever _not_ being there.

But now she _wasn't_ there—she was back with her own family. And a Fred-shaped hole had been left behind.

Wesley was the first to move, muttering something about books and translations. He scuttled off toward his office as fast as his legs could carry him. Gunn sniffled rather conspicuously and then he too moved away from the counter. Angel simply disappeared without a word.

Left alone, Doyle leaned his weight against the counter behind him, sliding one arm behind the rather glum-looking woman who still remained at his side.

"It must be nice to grow up with unconditional love instead of a pony." She said, uttering the words as if they were a foreign concept. She crossed her arms across her chest, closing herself off. "If I disappeared for five years, I bet my parents wouldn't even notice."

"That'd never happen, Princess." Doyle assured her, tilting his head in her direction. He tried to melt the ice in her voice with the warmth of his own. "I'd come find ya."

Either because of his tone or just because, she twisted her body marginally in his direction. Her eyes remained lowered as she reached out to idly finger a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. "Care to commiserate?"

"Huh?" He asked quizzically.

"Com-mis-er-ate." She repeated as if he was a very small child, or a slow one. "See, how it works is, I complain about how badly my parents screwed _me_ up, then you do the same, which in turn, makes me feel better. Insert daddy issues here."

Doyle let out a dry chuckle as he scratched at the top of his head. His eyes were fixed to the chandelier above. "Well… can't say much about my dad, since I've never met the guy. But, aside from my ma's fairly lousy taste in demons, she's good people. Raised me right. Fed me well—I tell ya, she makes a helluva Sunday supper. And to this day she still reminds me to wash behind my ears."

Shaking her head in disbelief, Cordelia grumped her reply. "You really don't get the whole commiseration thing, do you?" She sighed heavily, giving a yank on the shirt-thread she had been toying with. Her voice softened just a bit. "Your mom does sound really nice, though."

"If it wasn't for the thousands o' miles in our way, I'd introduce ya." Doyle swore. He spied a smile starting to flicker at the edges of Cordelia's lips, a smile Doyle very much wanted to keep there and enhance in size. "Here's a thought—why don't we call it a night, yeah? We killed a demon, lost a Fred. Now it's time to drown our sorrows. I'm thinkin' dessert—"

 _Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._

"Ah…" Doyle nearly jumped a mile as the cell phone in his pocket came to life, buzzing up a storm. "One sec." He instructed, holding up an index finger with one hand as he dug the phone out of his pocket with the other. Removing the vibrating device from his person, he flipped it open and saw the identity of the caller. "I, ah… gotta take this. Just hold that thought, love."

Cordelia looked mildly perturbed as he darted away, making a rather abrupt exit into the rear courtyard; his thumb clicked on the button to accept the call as soon as he was alone.

"Penny, man, please tell me you've got something for me…"


	16. Fredless, Part 3

**16\. Fredless, Part III**

The blanket of sky above him was a comfort. Throughout the centuries, everything around Angel had changed—become louder and busier. The night sky was the one constant. The few stars he could see struggling to shine over the city light pollution were the same ones he'd seen as a human boy in Galway. He relished that bit of sameness within the ever-changing sea of human existence.

"I see why you and Doyle like it up here."

Angel reacted to the sound of Cordelia's voice, as if he hadn't already known she was approaching him, which they both knew he did. There was no fooling his vampire senses. Even if she hadn't been doused in her favorite perfume, he would have smelled her human blood from the bottom of the stairwell and heard the beat of her heart as she ascended to the Hyperion rooftop.

"Cordelia." He greeted her, his eyes subtly darting toward the empty doorway behind her. It was more for her benefit than for his. For just as assuredly as he knew she was there, he also knew Doyle was not there with her.

"The view is really something." She observed, as she walked up beside Angel, leaning her elbows on the retaining wall that encircled the rooftop. Her posture mirrored his as she settled in; it was a very Doyle-like thing to do. In fact, Angel and Doyle had spent countless evenings just like this, side-by-side with the city spread wide beneath them.

Granted, Doyle probably would have brought along a bottle of whiskey.

"It's a clear night." Angel pointed out, covertly trying to read Cordelia's expression from the corner of his eye. He kept his voice placid, but there was the slightest hint of a question underneath. _Where's Doyle?_

"Sure is." She muttered absently.

The rooftop felt like foreign territory to her, but she had no idea why. She had been up there before. Most memorably, she and Doyle had tried to recreate their second date, substituting the Hyperion roof for the Griffith Observatory. It hadn't exactly been a successful endeavor, due in part to an overcast sky and further impeded by an array of work-related distractions. Adding to the less-than-sweet memory was the ordeal that directly followed—getting caught in the thrall of the Shroud of Rahmon and the rather detrimental repercussions that event had on their relationship.

Tonight was better. Tonight Cordelia could see what all the fuss was about. Tonight… she was just a little bit glad it wasn't Doyle on the rooftop with her.

Absorbing the spectacular view for a long, quiet moment, she finally sucked in a sharp breath and whipped her head around rather suddenly. "You wanna talk about it?"

Dropping his mouth open and then closing it again, Angel turned his head toward her at a much slower speed. "Um… _it_?" He asked tentatively, knowing full well that a conversation with Cordelia was generally more of an interrogation. "If this is about Buffy—"

"Oh, forget her. She came back from the dead, you still have a gypsy curse, blah, blah, blah—old news." Cordelia said dismissively. "What are you brooding about _right_ _now_? I mean… it's gotta be Fred, right? Poor, little, formerly—and, let's face it _,_ _still kinda_ —crazy Fred."

"I'll miss her," Angel replied, not bothering to object to Cordelia's assumption that he was brooding about anything in particular, or anything at all, for that matter.

"Me, too!" Cordelia shouted empathetically, gesturing to the empty air in front of them as if it held some kind of validation. "Commiseration. Am I right?"

Angel gave her a bemused smirk, not entirely sure what kind of response she was after, or even if she required one at all. Luckily, he was the strong, silent type by nature; he played that role to a T.

"Do you feel better?" She probed; her voice had an expectant ring to it as her eyes drilled into the side of Angel's face.

"I think… it's probably for the best." Angel reasoned. "She has a shot at a normal life now."

Cordelia's lackluster response was uttered more to herself than to him. "Yeah, some people really go for that… so I've heard." Her shoulders proceeded to tighten, her eyes drifted away from the vampire at her side, back to the glow of headlights below. It wasn't his words that had put her on edge; she had been there all night. Maybe even longer than that. And now she felt like she was dangling…

What came next was a long silence. The type of silence that spoke volumes. Mostly because Cordelia was present and allowing the silence to occur. It wasn't really her style to enjoy silence. She generally used it as a weapon, not as a means of solace.

Angel shifted a little, the first sign of discomposure from his end. "Do _you_ wanna talk?"

As he asked the question, he casually twisted himself halfway. Only one of his elbows remained resting on the wall as the rest of him turned toward her. She had his undivided attention; and it seemed, for the first time in her life, she didn't know what to do with it.

He had undoubtedly expected a witty retort or a wry deflection of her true feelings. Cordelia half-expected that, too. Quips usually flew from her mouth before she'd had time to even consider how they'd land. The silence that continued surprised her as much as him.

"Cordelia." Angel's voice gently prodded. She could practically hear the slight furrow to his brow.

"Why am I so terrible at this?" She finally blurted. Her head levered in Angel's direction once again, much more reluctantly this time. The rest of her body remained rigidly turned away, her palms pressed flush against the top of balustrade.

"Talking?" Angel asked disbelievingly. "I think you're, y'know, um… pretty skilled in that department."

Cordelia lightly rolled her eyes at his glib response, side-stepping her desire for sarcasm. " _Guiding_." She clarified in a tight voice, as if it physically pained her to admit out loud. But with that one word, the proverbial cork had been popped, and the rest of her feelings poured forth. "I thought I'd be great at this messenger thing, because the other me did it and, let's face it, I'm great at everything I really put my mind to. Plus, I have all the qualifications: a fabulous grasp of the English language, the uncanny ability to speak the truth, and a better-than-average wardrobe. But, you don't seem to need any truth-telling right now, or my keen fashion sense, and it turns out Doyle wasn't overselling how much the visions suck. If you think they _look_ painful, well, boy howdy! They _feel_ a whole lot worse—and don't even get me started on how abstract they are! _Hey, there's a demon killing some girl—oh, sorry, did you want an address with that? Because we thought you'd prefer to experience her decapitation first hand!"_

After she'd concluded her tirade, she felt lighter. The tension that had been living in her muscles for weeks seemed to drain from her body along with the troubles she'd vented verbally. "It's way harder than I thought." She admitted with far less emphasis than everything that had come before. "And if I screw up it's some poor, helpless victim that's going to die as a result."

"It's not an easy job, Cordelia." Angel replied without missing a beat. "The stakes are high. But, all any of us can do is try. And, you're not just trying, you're doing great."

If he was surprised by her outburst of insecurities, he didn't let on. His placid demeanor reminded her of the early days of Angel Investigations when the only two people she had in her life were Angel and Doyle. It was Doyle she had gotten close to right away, Doyle she had turned to for advice, and Doyle to whom she'd vented all her frustrations. But when her frustrations became her ever-growing feelings for Doyle, it was Angel's listening ear she had sought. She forgot what a good listener he could be. How reassuring he could be, even with few words.

Cordelia breathed a weighty sigh of relief. "You really think so?"

"I do." Angel confirmed… and then after a slight pause. "I'm sure Doyle would tell you the same thing, if you gave him the chance to say it."

Her head instinctively began to shake before she answered. "I can't talk to him about this."

Angel shifted his weight forward, moving closer to her even as he turned back toward the cityscape. "Why not?" He asked without any trace of judgment. "He's been through it, Cordy. He's felt the exact same way you do now. He can help better than anyone."

"I don't want his help!" It was a reflex, but she retracted her armor just as quickly as it had appeared. "I mean… of course, I want his help. Of course, I wanna confide in him, it's just…" She struggled with her explanation, inspecting her nail beds as if she'd find the answers there. Finally, she stopped evading Angel's waiting eyes. "He's _so_ worried about me—every second of every day. He feels responsible, because… that's Doyle. The last thing I wanna do is give him an actual _reason_ to worry, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know." Angel agreed, seeming to accept her rationale better than she thought he would.

Of course, Angel would understand that feeling, too. He lived every moment of his life under the umbrella of Doyle's big cosmic responsibility.

Reaching out, she placed her hand on Angel's shoulder and squeezed as she pleaded her case. "So, this can stay just between us, right?"

"Um, yeah…" Angel's voice had changed, and his eyes dropped downward at first and then rapidly darted to the doorway to the stairwell. She turned her head to follow his gaze, and found a rather perplexed-looking half-demon slowly making his approach.

"Ah… there ya both are." He greeted them uncertainly. As he moved closer, Cordelia could see the rows of lines visible above his tightly knitted brow. "Looks like I missed something serious."

Cordelia unhanded Angel and jumped to attention, a falsely bright smile slipping into place. "Yeah, a whole ten minutes of Angel's brooding." She chirped in reply, turning her faux-smile on Angel and tightening it in warning. "Don't worry, I'm sure there's more where that came from."

Shifting his weight a little uncomfortably, Angel brought an equally fake smile to his own lips. On him it looked much more creepy and unnatural. "Right." He answered, his eyes silently objecting to her strategy. "Brooding. It's what I do."

If Doyle looked dubious before, he now looked downright suspicious. "Uh huh…" He said, his eyes darting from his girlfriend to his best friend and then back again. It was obvious that he didn't believe a word either one of them was saying, but rather than belabor the point, he segued on to an entirely new one. "Well, while ya were up here having your private brood-session, ya missed something pretty serious downstairs—as in, all hell breaking loose."

"What?!" Angel asked. Now he was the one to jump to attention, all traces of his previously casual demeanor fading away. "What happened?"

"Remember that demon head ya brought back from the ice cream shop? And then that other demon Fred's mum ran over with a bus earlier? Turns out the first demon was full o' that _other_ demon's spawn, and mommy—or daddy—and the whole damn hive came to collect." Doyle explained, hiking a thumb over his shoulder.

"Right now?" Cordelia demanded, her eyes growing wide as she pointed downward, through the floor. "There's an entire demon hive _downstairs_?!" She paused, and then tilted her head in puzzlement. "Wait, what's a demon hive?"

Angel lurched forward, clearly intending to rush downstairs, straight into the demon battle that was ensuing several floors below, but he was halted in his tracks by Doyle's outstretched arm. "You can hold your horses there, John Wayne. The hero's already rode in and saved the day."

"The… _who_?" Angel asked dumbly.

"Fred—she came back." Doyle said as if that explained everything, which from Angel and Cordelia's perspective, it didn't. "Just in the nick o' time, yeah?"

"…to be massacred by a so-called demon hive?" Cordelia wondered glibly.

"To put that thingamajig she built to good use." Doyle clarified, the look on his face revealed just how impressed he was by whatever he'd witnessed Fred's oddly shaped hunk of metal and wires accomplish.

"You've lost me." Angel said, eyeing the open doorway over Doyle's shoulder and wondering if he shouldn't just head down to the lobby to see the damage for himself.

"You never _had_ me." Cordelia complained, folding her arms over her chest as she arched an inquisitive brow in Doyle's direction. "Are you saying that Fred came back to the hotel; saved you, Wesley and Gunn from a horde of demons; and did it all using that weird toaster-thingie?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying!" Doyle concurred, and then tilted his head toward Angel to amend his statement. "But, that thing definitely wasn't a toaster, man. Ya shoulda seen it—split that demon head open like a melon! And all these little baby bug-demons poured out. It was—"

"Gross." Cordelia interjected, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

"Yeah, it was pretty gross now that ya mention it." Doyle agreed with a dark chuckle.

"So, Fred… came back?" Angel asked hopefully, pointing his finger toward the door to the stairwell.

"Like, to stay?!" Cordelia asked with growing anticipation.

Doyle said nothing, but the grin that spread wide across his face told them all they needed to know.

The Angel Investigations team had finally been made whole.


	17. Billy, Part 1

**17\. Billy, Part I**

Doyle clomped down the basement steps and came up short about midway through his travels, his heart nearly halting in his chest. It was the unexpected image of his Cordelia's slender curves draped in the muscled arms of another man that had frozen him in place. This was almost becoming a habit—Doyle walking in on questionable moments between his girlfriend and his best friend; although, this one was far more confounding than the relatively innocuous moment they'd shared on the roof. From Doyle's immediate vantage point, and without any context, the moment looked intimate, as if Angel was spooning a lover. His lover, in this instance, being Cordelia.

Blinking away his shock, Doyle began to absorb the tableau for what it truly was. Not a tender moment at all. Angel was merely adjusting Cordelia's grip on the formidable weapon she held in her hands—a razor-sharp katana, that could easily slice through any flesh it encountered, be it human or demon.

The vampire stepped back, removing his arms from Cordelia's body; he grabbed his own sword that was propped nearby and held it in a perfect mirror image to hers. "Slowly," he instructed her.

The two of them began to move in practiced unison; the pre-rehearsed routine would have looked beautiful if its purpose wasn't to eviscerate whatever stood on the receiving end. Doyle stood watching in silence, so as not to disturb the two warriors in mid-movement. Parallel to one another, they spun and swung their swords, extending them outward with their backs turned to the staircase where Doyle stood observing. And then they both lowered their weapons and loosened their stances, signaling that their routine was complete.

Doyle began to clap appreciatively as he resumed his journey down the staircase, "That was a thing o' beauty, Princess." He complimented, as Cordelia turned toward him with mild surprise. Angel had, of course, been the only one of the two who had known they had an audience. "I do love watching ya work."

" _Watching_ being the operative word." She responded, with a knowing smile, handing off the katana to Angel so he could place it back in its sheath.

As Doyle sauntered closer to his girlfriend, he admired her soft curves juxtaposed with toned muscles, all readily on display beneath her skin-tight workout attire and a thin sheen of sweat. "Thinkin' I should be jealous, yeah?" He goaded, as his eyes drifted to her exposed navel before darting back up to her flushed face. "Ya used to ask _me_ to train with ya."

"Angel wasn't here back then." She said matter-of-factly, stepping to the edge of the work out mat and lifting a bottle of water that sat there. "He's the better fighter. And training with you always turned into having sex—a technique that probably won't be effective on the battlefield."

"I'd prefer if it wasn't." Doyle replied amusingly, scratching at the back of his head.

Angel had finished stowing the two weapons; he turned toward Doyle and Cordelia wearing a vaguely horrified expression. "You two had sex in _here_?"

"It's a room made for hot, sweaty physical activity." Cordelia reasoned, before taking a large swig from her water bottle and then wiping her lips on her forearm. She shook off Angel's continued glares of disapproval. "We've sullied _far_ more inappropriate places than this. You want a list?"

"No. Thanks." Angel said, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Vampire senses, remember?"

"Oh, right." She answered, tilting her head to the side thoughtfully. "Also, _ewww_."

Angel continued to glower as Doyle tried to stifle his own smirk, keeping his eyes lowered to the floor. As someone who had heightened senses of his own, Doyle could certainly sympathize with Angel's plight. It's not like he could turn off his supernatural abilities, but it was slightly less awkward for _all_ of them, when he chose not to bring them up.

"Great session. Thanks for the help!" Cordelia chirped over her shoulder as she brushed past Doyle on the way to the stairs. "God, do I need a shower."

"That an invitation, love?" Doyle growled, his hungry eyes following her.

"Nope." She responded without so much as a pause for consideration. She rapidly ascended the steps and disappeared into the lobby above, leaving her two less human counterparts behind.

Doyle sighed and glanced back over at Angel, who had turned his back in order to pick up several small knives that had been laid out on the far end of the mat. Opening a trunk nearby, Angel began carefully placing them inside the velvet-lined notches that were created for that specific collection.

"So… how y'think she's doing?" Doyle probed, shuffling a few casual steps in Angel's direction, shoving a hand in his back pocket.

"She's good." Angel replied, placing the last knife in the case and shutting the lid. He looked up at the half-demon hovering above him. "Picks up on moves right away. Perfects them in just a couple tries. She says it's like cheerleading... maybe there's something to that. You know, Buffy was a cheerleader."

"No, man, I'm not talking about the training." Doyle clarified, as Angel clicked the latch on the trunk closed and shoved it back into a corner. He then rose to a standing position to meet Doyle's eyes. "I mean, in general. She seem more… I dunno, _withdrawn_ to you?"

"Withdrawn?" Angel repeated quizzically, definitely not sold on that choice of adjective to ever describe Cordelia Chase.

"Maybe not withdrawn exactly." Doyle hedged, gesturing with his right hand, while the left remained firmly planted in his back pocket. "Just... different."

Mulling over the question for a moment, Angel shrugged his partial agreement. "Maybe." Then, he changed his mind. "Not really. She seems like Cordelia."

"Ah… maybe ya just don't see the same side of 'er as I do." Doyle supposed, studying his best friend curiously. "Then again, she's not being terribly forthcoming lately, which is sorta the point. Has she, y'know… said anything to you? Anything I should know?"

Angel scoffed at the question, but kept his eyes markedly averted, which gave Doyle the slightest tingle of suspicion. For all the things Angel was highly skilled at, lying was not one of them. "If it's the visions you're worried about… honestly, Doyle, I think she's adapted as well as can be expected."

"Well, that's the thing." Doyle responded, leaping for the proverbial carrot Angel had dangled. "She _is_ adapting to something that's decidedly unnatural, man. And unnatural things lead to unnatural behaviors—y'see where I'm going with this, yeah?"

The vampire's eyes flickered back over to Doyle's face, and then he took a step back, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Is this about your sex life?" Angel asked, backpedaling another step, so he could escape to the stairs if he needed to. "'Cause, if it is, I really don't wanna hear it."

"It's not about our sex life." Doyle assured his friend, and then adjusted his answer slightly. "Well, okay—can't say she's been in the mood as often as she used to be, what with all the carnage goin' on in her head—but that's not what concerns me, man. What _does_ concern me is all that pain she's being forced to live with changing her somehow."

"She's dealt with pain before." Angel pointed out cautiously.

"Not like this." Doyle argued, and that much was true. There was no other pain quite like the visions. So deep. So constant. So inescapable.

"Did it change you?" Angel wondered, in his typical understated fashion.

"O'course." Doyle answered reflexively, but he knew that wasn't an entirely accurate statement. If he boiled down the simplest components of who Allen Francis Doyle was as a person—of what made him tick—the pain of the visions hadn't changed much. If anything, it had whittled away the devil-may-care facade he'd tried to hide behind, revealing more of his core personality traits. However, it wasn't exactly a fair comparison. When Doyle had first received the visions, he wasn't exactly the man he once was—that was sort of the point.

"She's grown up a lot these last few years." Angel said evenly. "She hasn't been the Cordelia you first met for a long time—that's never seemed to bother you before."

"Growing up is one thing, getting saddled with someone else's cosmic burden is another." Doyle contended, but then felt the argument die on his lips. He folded his arms across his chest and stared down at the scuffed up Converse sneakers that adorned his feet. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid, huh? Worrying that all this will make her something other than _my_ Cordy."

"She'll always be _your_ Cordy." Angel confirmed, studying his friend closely, looking for the missing piece to the puzzle. Not understanding that _he_ was that piece. "Is there something you aren't telling me, Doyle? Did you see something in your vision of the future? Something you're afraid of?"

Doyle felt the breath catch in his lungs for a moment as he flashed ever-so-briefly to the vision once bestowed on him by that _other_ version of Cordelia. There had been so much that scared him about that other time and place. So much that he never wanted to see happen in the here and now.

Lives and loves. Gains and losses. Dark magiks awakened. White knights laid to rest. There was so much worry Doyle carried with him; so much he repressed.

Having his head full of so many possibilities and inevitabilities… it was bound to make even the most reasonable man paranoid. And Doyle knew he wasn't always the most reasonable man. He wasn't even the most reasonable demon. Which is why he needed to shake off the false memories of that other possible future and focus on the real future that was spread out before him. The one he spent each day ushering forth.

Giving his best friend a reassuring smile, Doyle reached out and pat Angel on the shoulder. "It's nothing, man." He promised. "Just letting the stress get to me, is all."

* * *

"Watch out, Doyle!" Angel warned. "He's gonna kill you."

Doyle bristled at Angel's words, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the menacing figure closing in. "You can save the running commentary, bud." He mashed his thumbs down rapidly on the small buttons attached to the plastic video game controller in his hand; his onscreen avatar leaped into motion. "Ah ha! See! Ol' Doyle's got some moves, yeah?!"

Gunn frowned, watching as his own avatar took on some battle damage. "Don't get cocky, D. You ain't won nothing yet."

Cordelia stood in the threshold of Wesley's kitchen, watching the three men piled on the living room couch. All she could see was the back of their heads and shoulders as their bodies jerked in response to the events unfolding on the television screen in front of them. Angel was seated at the far right, pumping his fist as he rooted for Doyle to defeat the reigning champion. Doyle occupied the middle cushion, trying desperately to end Gunn's winning streak. And the champ himself was at the far left, with Fred perched on the arm of the couch, occasionally leaning over to offer strategic pointers.

Their enthusiasm for the stupid game was half-annoying and half-adorable.

"Tea?" Wesley offered, coming up from behind Cordelia and holding out a steaming mug in offering.

"Thanks." She answered, carefully accepting the mug and moving away from the doorway to take up residence at the kitchen table. "Gotta say, Wes. That dinner was really impressive. I'm starting to think we're in the wrong line of work—maybe it's time to shutter Angel Investigations and open _Chez Angelique_ instead."

Wesley chuckled, settling himself into the seat to her left with his own cup of tea. He cast his eyes through the doorway, observing his other four dinner guests. "Do you suppose Fred enjoyed the meal?"

Following the direction of Wesley's gaze, Cordelia's eyes skimmed to the only occupant of the living room who did not possess a Y chromosome. "That girl's never met a meal she _didn't_ enjoy." Cordelia mused and then turned her eyes back on the man seated beside her. "Maybe next time you have her over for an intimate dinner for two, you shouldn't ask the rest of us to come along."

She saw Wesley's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed his embarrassment. "Ah, I don't— _ahem_. I mean..." He met Cordelia's knowing gaze and gave up his flimsy attempt at hiding his feelings for Fred. "Was I _that_ obvious?"

"Yes!" Gunn shouted from the other room, causing both Wesley and Cordelia to snap their attention toward the living room. They could see the other man's focus was still on the video game as he raised his arms over his head in victory. "Still the undefeated champion!"

"Oh, well. You win some, you lose some." Angel said, snatching the controller away from Doyle whose face was wrinkled with annoyance. "My turn."

A smirk appeared on Cordelia's lips as she leaned conspiratorially toward the uptight Englishman at her side. "Not everyone has my talent for this sort of thing." She assured Wesley. "I don't think anyone else noticed—Fred _definitely_ didn't notice. Which could be a problem if you're trying to date her. You are trying to date her, right?"

Wesley sighed, leaning back in his chair as he tossed another admiring glance in Fred's direction. "She is a rather extraordinary young woman."

"Sure." Cordelia agreed, swirling her teaspoon around in her cup. "If you like that girl-next-door- _to-the mental-institution_ type who enjoys long walks through dark sewer tunnels and romantic evenings mulling over advanced physics equations. Which actually seems perfect for you—so why the hesitation? Just ask her out already."

"Well, office romances can be..." Wesley hedged, his eyes dropping to the swirls of steam still rising from his own mug of tea.

"Convenient." Cordelia supplied.

"Complicated." Wesley amended her previous statement.

Cordelia arched her brow in a challenging manner. "The long hours, the demon-blood stains on all your clothes—it takes a very specific kind of person to put up with that, Wes. And generally speaking, all those specific persons are either in this apartment or back in Sunnydale. Face it—workplace romances are pretty much the only shot we have of not dying alone."

"Ah… I'm choosing not to take offense to that statement, Princess." The commentary was supplied by Doyle, who had just wandered into the kitchen. Upon his entrance, Wesley's eyes once again darted nervously toward the living room, confirming that Fred was still focused on the ongoing video game tournament. Doyle continued to saunter toward the table, leaning his elbows on the back of an empty chair as he glowered down at his girlfriend.

"You shouldn't take offense." She said sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes up at him. "It wasn't pure desperation that drove me into your arms—it was my growth as a person that helped me look beyond your poorly dressed, penniless exterior to see the half-demon-prince underneath."

Doyle's face became a mask of uncertainty as he processed her words, which still sounded more insulting than flattering. "Well… that's okay, I guess."

"Any dating advice you'd like to impart on non-Don Juan over here?" Cordelia went on, motioning for Doyle to takeover the job of counseling Wesley. "Suave British accent aside—Wes has got no game to speak of. I remember this one time, right before my high school graduation—"

"Hey, hey, hey." Doyle interrupted, holding up his hand to halt her trip down memory lane in its tracks. A distinctly sour expression had appeared on Wesley's face, even as a smirk quivered at the edge of his own lips. Nonetheless, Doyle opted to valiantly rescue the other man from his girlfriend's sharp tongue. "Ya promised I'd never have to hear the sordid details of whatever past you two shared—it's the basis for our entire friendship, yeah?" He turned his pitying eyes toward Wesley and caught a slight nod of thanks. "Here's a piece of advice, pal—don't ask for advice. Just be yourself."

Wesley nodded slowly, took a deep breath and pushed his chair back, rising from the table. "Thank you both for the sage advice. Now, if you'll excuse me… I should, perhaps, see to my other guests."

"Dead! So dead!" Gunn's shouts carried from the other room, as Wesley scooted away from the kitchen table, hurrying himself across the threshold to sidle up beside Fred.

"What was that all about?" Doyle wondered, hiking his thumb at Wesley's retreating form.

"He has a thing for Fred… which you would already know if you paid attention." Cordelia stated as she removed the spoon from the depths of her mug and lightly tapped it on the rim. "I was just giving him one of my trademark pep talks."

A slight wrinkle appeared across Doyle's brow. "Maybe ya shouldn't."

"Wesley's a big boy." She responded dismissively. "He knows I'm an arbiter of truth. What kind of a friend would I be if didn't use that truth to help him get the girl?"

"Yeah, but maybe, in this case, it's best not to get involved, yeah?" Doyle countered, standing up straight and pulling the chair out from the table so he could plop himself into it.

She observed his no-nonsense manner, and it suddenly struck her why Doyle would object to her coaching Wesley about his love life. "You _know_ something, don't you?" She could always tell when Doyle was speaking from a place of actual knowledge, rather than opinion.

Doyle didn't alter his nonchalant vibe, offering her only the most noncommittal of shrugs. "What I know is, it's not our place to get involved with affairs o' the heart." He answered simply. "If two people are meant to be together, they'll get together. Just like you and me." The dimple appeared on his cheek as he smiled at her. She hated when he used the dimple to his advantage; it worked almost every time. "Speaking of you and me," he went on. "Don't y'think it's been too long since we had ourselves a night out that didn't include the entire staff of Angel Investigations?"

"It hasn't been that long." She hedged. Even as she argued the point, she couldn't think of the last time they'd gone anywhere, just the two of them. Granted, they _lived_ together, but that wasn't the same thing. "Okay, maybe it's been longer than usual…"

"Well, what d'ya say, love—up for a spin around The Derby?" Doyle offered, sliding his hand across the table to reach hers.

"Now?" She asked, even as a vision of the two of them swinging their way around the popular jazz club danced through her head. It didn't seem terribly unappealing.

"If you're too tired for dancing, we'll just find a dark corner and spend the whole time groping each other." Doyle replied with a flirtatious little wink. "It'll be fun."

She felt his infectious smile creep onto her lips. As much as Doyle could drive her crazy with his overbearing anxiety, his willingness to do anything and everything to make her happy would never get old. "You don't want another shot at Gunn?" She asked, tipping her head toward the other room, where more shouts of victory and groans of defeat could be heard.

"I'm more of a lover than a fighter. Besides, Fred's got the next round." Doyle admitted with a chuckle. He then squeezed Cordelia's hand affectionately. "C'mon, darlin'. Lemme show ya off for a few hours."

His compliment succeeded in brightening her smile further and she squeezed his hand in return. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?" She said matching his laughter with her own. She started to push back her chair, only to freeze in place.

She was still gripping his hand and her grasp began to tighten. "Ow! Nails!" Doyle yelped as her fingernails began to dig into his skin. But she was barely cognizant of his reaction because her central nervous system had been paralyzed by the latest incoming message from those on high.

WHAM!

Something very powerful slammed into her face—was it the table? No… it felt like a fist. A man's fist.

POW! BLAM!

The fist came down repeatedly. Mercilessly. Unstopping.

Cordelia could feel every punch. Followed by every kick. She could taste the blood that trickled down her throat. Could hear the aggressive grunts from her attacker and the screams from surrounding witnesses. She could feel herself dying as the ribs cracked beneath her flesh, puncturing her lungs.

And then there was darkness, which felt a whole lot like death.

"Cordy! Breathe!" Doyle's frantic voice cut through the thick fog of the receding vision.

She immediately followed his instruction, gasping for air. Through the throbbing pain in her head, she felt lightheaded from the momentary lack of oxygen. Her pulse raced so hard that even her veins hurt. "I think I'm gonna throw up." She mumbled aloud, bringing her shaking hands up to her cheeks. Not to hide her face, but to make sure it was still in one uncrushed piece.

It was fine. Of course, it was fine. Which was more than she could say for that poor old woman in her vision.

Blinking open her tear-blurred eyes, Cordelia became aware of the multiple concerned and horrified expressions peering down at her from overhead. She was lying on the cold tiled floor of Wesley's kitchen, with Doyle's hand cushioning the back of her head. He must've caught her as she'd been flung off her chair and had eased her down to the ground.

"Here. Take this." Wesley's face pushed into frame, along with a glass of water and a rolled up compress, the latter of which Doyle took and placed gently over Cordelia's forehead. "Can you tell us what you saw?"

"Just give 'er a minute, yeah?" Doyle said protectively, trying to keep his voice low even though he was clearly agitated. His free hand was pushed against the warm compress, applying light pressure to help abate the throbbing in her skull.

Cordelia lifted her hand, taking over the duty of securing the cloth to her head. She slowly pushed herself up, first to her elbows, and eventually to an upright sitting position. After a few more wheezy breaths, she finally found her voice. "It was so awful. He was beating her—this man in a convenience store. He wouldn't stop." Swallowing hard against the bitterness in her throat, she replayed the images from her vision, also reliving what it felt like to be in that woman's place—to be on the receiving end of every single punch. "He just kept going and going, until she was dead. And I could feel… _sniff_. I could feel how much she loved him. I think they were married."

As if the brutal violence of her vision hadn't been bad enough, she found the emotional aspect to be the most disturbing part. To experience those intense feelings of love while being brutalized... It was too much. Which is why the feeling of Doyle's arm snaking around her shoulders felt like an invasion, rather than the gesture of comfort it was meant to be. Cordelia instinctively recoiled, shoving him away and scooting her body backwards across the kitchen tiles. She could tell Doyle was troubled by her rebuff, but he made no further attempt to touch her, allowing her the physical space she so clearly needed.

"Can you tell us anything else?" Angel asked gently from where he crouched at Doyle's side. "What part of town?"

"No." Cordelia bit back with frustration.

"That's okay, Cordy." Fred said encouragingly, rapidly doing some rather complex computing in her head. "In theory, it would take less than three days to visit every convenience store in the city. That's figuring an average of one convenience store per every other city block in the 502.7 square miles of Los Angeles. Oh, but, um… traffic will also be a factor."

"This is the gridlock capital of the world." Gunn pointed out. "I'm no math whiz, but I doubt we got that kinda time."

Cordelia began rapidly shaking her head as she realized just how pointless this vision had been—just how powerless she was to stop this particular atrocity from happening. "We don't have any time… It happened a week ago. There's nothing we can do."

"Are ya sure?" Doyle asked with a slight furrow to his brow.

"Of course, I'm sure!" She snapped, letting the damp cloth fall away from her forehead; she balled her fist tightly at her side. "Why would they show this to me now? What's the point?!"

"There's gotta be a reason, love." Doyle assured her, his voice laced with calm despite the furious tone she'd used against him. "We'll figure out what it is."

Cordelia ran her hands through her hair, pushing it back from her face. She had no idea why she was attacking Doyle. This wasn't his fault and yet, she had a pool of frustration boiling in the pit of her stomach and she couldn't help but direct it toward the person who was closest to her. The person she loved and shared her life with. As if it had been him who had struck her down, just as the old man had struck down his wife.

It was completely irrational—Doyle would never do such a thing. But right now, rational thought was fleeting. Especially when there was no way to stop this horrendous act from happening. It already was. It already had been.

She had no outlet. Cordelia just had to swallow these toxic feelings and hope they'd subside at some point.

Doyle had moved away from her, rising to speak with the others over her head.

"Have you ever received a vision of the past before?" Wesley asked in little more than a whisper.

Doyle cast a worried glance down at Cordelia. He was much more concerned by her extremely visceral reaction to the vision, than the mystery surrounding it. "Once." He answered distractedly, not bothering to elaborate. "I'm guessing there's a clue we need packaged somewhere in there, but I'm not gonna push Cordy to relive it anymore than she already is."

"I wouldn't expect you to." Wesley agreed, his own concern for Cordelia was audibly apparent. "What I do expect, is that you'll take her home. The rest of us will start researching the case—if there's a clue to be found, we will find it."


	18. Billy, Part 2

**18\. Billy, Part II**

Doyle removed his hand from the bubbly bath water, shaking off the droplets and then reaching over to twist the shiny metal knobs into an off position. Pushing himself up off the side of the tub, he turned to look at his girlfriend, who sat hunched over on the closed lid of the toilet seat with a robe wrapped tightly around her body. She had barely spoken to him since they'd left Wesley's apartment; barely even looked at him for that matter.

"It's ready." He announced, motioning toward the warm, fragrant bath that he'd ensured was hot enough to soothe, but not to burn. "Anything else ya need before I go?"

"No." She mumbled, keeping her head down and her arms wrapped protectively around herself. "Thanks."

Careful to leave a wide berth around her, Doyle exited the bathroom and closed the door most of the way behind him. As much as he wanted to be there for her through every second of this vicious vision hangover, he could read her body language loud and clear. She didn't want him there—she didn't want him anywhere near her. And as much as it pained him, he had to respect that.

As he made his way to the kitchen, he stopped to give Clover an affectionate pat on the head in passing. He flipped on the burner under the teakettle and began searching the drawers for Cordelia's stash of herbal teas, assuming one of them would have calming properties. He wasn't even sure if he was making it for her or for himself, but if it were for him, perhaps, he'd toss in a tumbler of Whiskey for good measure. Not that it'd help his nerves any—the only thing that would allow him to rest easy was for her to do the same. And he wasn't sure how she'd be able to do any such thing if there was no case for them to solve.

Fifteen minutes later, he was carrying a hot cup of chamomile tea to the bathroom, with Clover padding along in his footsteps, nuzzling her head against his ankles as he paused at the partially open door. The steam was billowing out through the crack, and he could see that the mirror over the sink had long-since fogged over.

He lightly rapped a knuckle against the wooden doorframe. "I made ya some tea, love." He called through the screen of humidity without opening the door any further. "It's that herbal stuff ya like… and I took the liberty of adding a little something extra." He didn't ask to enter, but the question was there.

The aroma of the chamomile was stimulating an old memory in Doyle, bringing him all the way back to the time Cordelia had been impregnated by a Haxil Demon—in similar fashion, he'd stood nervously outside her bedroom door, burning his hands on a hot mug. He hadn't added the whiskey that time; it'd seemed like poor taste, despite the fact that her offspring had consisted of seven parasitic demons. Doyle had been so worried for her then, just as he was now. Granted, the circumstances were considerably different; his place in her life was also very different. And yet, his desire to be there for her—to help and support her through the difficult time she faced—that had never changed.

She just had to let him in…

Cordelia's quiet voice floated out the door along with the steam, granting him permission to enter. She sounded tired, but he didn't detect any uncertainty, which is why he proceeded. Clover continued to follow him until her small head was inside the door. Feeling the dense, steamy air within, she immediately about-faced and scurried away, seeking much more temperate pastures.

The humidity struck him at once, clinging to his skin and adding volume to his dark head of hair. He shut the door behind him, so as not to ruin her cocoon of warmth. Cordelia was sitting in the tub, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her chin on top. Behind her, a loofah dipped itself into the soapy bathwater and floated upward across her spine, compliments of Dennis.

Doyle moved further into the room, placing the mug of tea onto one of the empty corners of the bathtub, where Cordelia could reach it with minimal effort. He then waved his hand toward the floating loofah. "Mind if I take over?" The question was posed to Cordelia, but Dennis answered by immediately relinquishing the wooden handle to Doyle. Still, he waited until he saw Cordelia's head bob softly, giving him the go-ahead to take over the ghost's loofah duty.

Carefully perching himself on the side of the tub, Doyle dipped the rigid sponge into the water and gently brushed it along the surface of Cordelia's smooth, unmarked flesh. He was relieved that she remained motionless, not flinching away from him as she'd done earlier.

"I didn't mean to push you away before." She said as if reading his mind, her voice carrying away from him and echoing off the porcelain tiles. "It's just… the vision felt so real. I can't seem to shake the feeling that it happened to me, not her."

"Yeah, I get that." Doyle replied in a soft tone. And that was true; he knew the feeling firsthand. Maybe he hadn't experienced this particular vision, but experiencing other people's trauma as his own, having trouble separating from it—that was a feeling he knew all too well. "Knowing ya can't fix it, makes it that much harder, yeah?"

Cordelia's head twisted slightly to her right, resting her chin on her shoulder rather than her knees. It allowed him to see the film of tears that shimmered in her eyes. "You do get it." There was an uncustomary hoarseness to her voice, and something that sounded an awful lot like regret. "I always knew your visions were painful. But, I never really understood what you were going through. Not until now."

"I wish ya didn't have to understand." He said, continuing to lightly run the loofah over her skin. "Not like this."

"Me, too." She answered honestly, and he was surprised that she let her mask slip even that much. Her shoulders slouched and she turned her head away from him once again, hinting that her next words were even harder for her to admit. "I thought I could do it, Doyle. I thought I was strong enough to see all these horrible things and not let them bother me. But… I don't think I can." Her head tipped forward as she mumbled into her wet knees. "I've been trying so hard to keep it to myself. The last thing I wanted to do was let you down..."

"Let me down?!" He echoed with surprise, releasing the loofah and letting it plunk into the bubbly water. He slid forward along the side of the tub, peeking into the nest of limbs that covered Cordelia's face. "For what? Being human? Having empathy for other people? That's nothin' to be ashamed of, Cordy. It's something to embrace." For all his worrying that the visions would change her in some way, he now saw how important it was that he nurture those changes rather than fear them. It was the best way he could help her; it was, perhaps, the only way. "And, for the record, you've always been way stronger than me, yeah? If only you were part demon, I'd say you were born for this job."

When she lifted her head he saw the slightest upturn to the corner of her lips, even as she sniffled away some of her tears. "Green's not really my color."

"But just imagine what ya could do with the spikes." He teased, finally daring to reach out and brush his thumb across her bare shoulder. She closed her eyes, and appeared to enjoy his gentle ministrations this time.

"The visions are a part of me now, I feel that..." Cordelia clarified, regaining some of her old bravado. "I can take the pain; I can live through the nightmares. It's worth it if I'm making a difference. But, this time... I can't do anything."

Doyle felt his heart leap in his chest. As he looked upon the face of his brave Cordy, he saw glimmers of that other Cordelia. The one he'd met all too briefly. The one who had fiercely carried his mantle, protecting his legacy up until her final breath. The one who had traveled through time and space to set things right. The one who had saved his life. Now he could see that his Cordelia wasn't all that different from that other one; she never had been. "You're an amazing woman in every reality, y'know that?"

"Well, duh." She replied, lifting her chin and tilting it in his direction; she met his eyes for the first time in hours. All her walls had come tumbling down, allowing him to clearly see, not only the relief in her hazel eyes, but also the vulnerability. Without hesitation he opened his arms to her, bidding her to seek comfort there if she wanted it, which she thankfully did. His shirt soaked straight through as he wrapped his arms tightly around her and kissed the top of her damp head, rocking her gently, receiving every bit as much comfort as he gave.

* * *

"Cordy, wait up!"

In the midst of powerwalking toward the frosted glass doors of the luxury high-rise where Lilah Morgan dwelled, Doyle's calls, nor his ragged breathing, compelled her to slow down. Cordelia had already wrenched open the fancy doors and was halfway across the garishly decorated lobby, by the time her half-demon pursuer finally caught up with her. Snagging her by the elbow, he gently brought her around to face him, which allowed her to see the disapproving look he tossed at the crossbow conspicuously sticking out of her oversized shoulder bag.

She should have known he'd try to stop her. He must have seen the possessed look in her eyes the very moment Angel had identified the man on the security footage at the convenience store.

Just like that—her latest vision made complete and total sense. And it was worse than she thought.

The man on the tape was Billy Blim. The same Billy Blim who up until recently had been burning in a fiery cage. The same Billy Blim whom Angel had freed in an attempt to release Cordelia from the painful effects of Wolfram & Hart's wiretapping spell-gone-wrong.

That Billy Blim was now not only responsible for the death of the old woman in the convenience store, but also a string of recent beating deaths, none of which he'd actually perpetrated himself. How that was possible, Cordelia had no idea. But she intended to find out.

"What d'ya think you're doing?!" He demanded, his eyes darting questioningly to the protruding handle of her crossbow. "Y'know better than to go rogue in the middle of a case, darlin'."

"I didn't go rogue—I told Fred I had an errand to run," she stated firmly, regretting that she'd done any such thing. Obviously, it was the other woman who'd ratted her out to Doyle. Next time Cordelia would just leave a note—a very small note, taped somewhere Doyle would never think to look. Like the vegetable bin in the refrigerator.

"At Lilah Morgan's apartment building?" He asked dubiously.

Cordelia yanked her arm out of his grasp. "You shouldn't have followed me—I can do this on my own. What's she gonna do? Sue me for knocking on her door?"

"If ya do it with a crossbow she might." Doyle pointed out, holding up his hands in an attempt to halt her forward motion as well as make peace.

"I'll start with words and see where things go." Cordelia declared, side-stepping him and slamming her fist against the elevator call button. "Don't you get it, Doyle?! Billy's free because of me. Every person he hurts, is because of me! And how much you wanna bet I'll get a front row seat to every single one of his victims, huh? The only way to stop the pain—to stop all of this—is to stop him! And she can help me do that!"

Ding! The elevator arrived and the doors slid open. Cordelia gave Doyle a deadly glare before entering, warning him to stay the hell out of it. Apparently, he wasn't as intimidated by her temper as he used to be, because he followed her through the double doors, and calmly stood beside her in the elevator car. The doors closed and the car began rapidly gliding upward with barely a sound.

"I get why ya needa do this." Doyle told her, finally breaking the silence. "Mind if I come along?"

She let out a long breath, tapping her foot impatiently as they continued their ascent to Lilah's floor. "Well… I guess you aren't much good at testing blood samples." She said grumpily, referring to Wesley's task back at the office. "But, let's be clear—this is my interrogation."

"Every bad cop needs a good cop, yeah?" Doyle suggested, but his wisecrack only succeeded in earning him another death glare.

"Are you implying I'm the bad cop?" She challenged him, without pausing for an answer. "How about you be silent cop?" She specified as the elevator doors slid open and she marched through them without waiting for further verbal agreement on his part.

"Good cops don't generally use crossbows is all I'm sayin'." She heard Doyle mumble to himself.

Paying no mind to his commentary, Cordelia kept her focus, stomping down the long hallway as Doyle trailed behind at a more leisurely pace. She stopped in front of Lilah's front door and gave it a good bang as Doyle fell into place beside her.

"Y'know, Angel already tried this." Doyle reminded her, shoving his hands in his pants pockets and rocking slightly on his heels. "Madame Satan wasn't real forthcoming."

"Angel couldn't cross the threshold." Cordelia responded tightly.

"She doesn't scare easy." Doyle continued, still not getting the 'silent cop' aspect of his role. "And while I myself have a healthy fear o' your wrath, I'm not sure it carries the same weight with those who're lacking a soul."

"Good thing silent cop has spikes!" She chirped, just as the door swung open. Both Cordelia's and Doyle's eyes widened and their mouths fell agape as they took in the state of Lilah's face.

Black and blue. Red and brown. One eye nearly swollen shut. One lip crusted over with blood.

Amazingly, Lilah still managed to look smug, even while covered with dark bruises and a busted lip. "Cordelia Chase." She said coolly, before flicking her eyes over Cordelia's shoulder to Doyle. "And her pet demon. Hope you don't mind, but I'm not really in the mood to entertain."

"That makes two of us." Cordelia answered curtly. "So, let's skip to the part where you give us the information we want."

Without waiting for a formal invitation, Cordelia ushered herself over Lilah's threshold and into the spacious apartment. Lilah rolled her eyes, but didn't verbally object. Rather, she gave Doyle a sarcastic wave of her hand. "I assume you've been housebroken."

Cordelia could practically hear Doyle bite his tongue as he brushed past Lilah and entered the sparsely decorated living room. The place was attractive, but also cold and uninviting, just like Lilah herself. Nothing like the warmth that instantly enveloped Cordelia when she walked into her own place, with the furry little kitten curled on the sofa beside a throw blanket knitted by one of Doyle's aging relatives. There wasn't a drop of personality or humanity to be detected in this space, as if it had been pulled directly from a catalogue.

"Tell us about Billy." Cordelia demanded as soon as Lilah had closed the front door and joined them in the chilly living area. "I wanna know everything you didn't tell Angel. You need to help us stop that madman before he does more damage."

"Why would I ever do that?" Lilah asked rhetorically. "He's a client."

"I'll wait while you go look in the mirror." Cordelia snitted, placing her hands on her hips. "Maybe that'll inspire you, if basic human decency doesn't."

"I'm not Lindsey McDonald." Lilah argued in reply. "I don't switch sides whenever the going gets tough. And I don't bend to idle threats, especially when they're coming from the second string." She tossed a questioning look in Doyle's direction. "What? The Dark Avenger too busy to stand in my doorway himself?"

"Hey, don't look at me—I'm silent cop." Doyle responded, deferring to Cordelia who couldn't help but glower at his broken silence. "Cordy—y'wanna add to Billy's handiwork there? Or should we maybe skip the violence, and hit 'er where it really hurts?"

Lilah's brow arched, curious as to what Doyle thought would really hurt, if not violence. Cordelia, however, wasn't at all puzzled by the subtext, knowing exactly what Lilah valued more than her face.

"You're a vicious bitch." Cordelia said abruptly, without missing a beat. Landing a brutal blow to the other woman's ego. "A title, I know you're proud of, because guess what? I used to be you. Names never hurt me, since I was the one doling them out. Sticks and stones and rebar puncturing my abdomen—yeah, that hurt me, but I didn't turn and bury my head in the sand. I fought back because I'm not a victim. But, that's exactly what you'll be unless you help us. Just another victim."

The words hit their mark. Lilah's demeanor changed ever-so-slightly and she shifted her gaze back over to Doyle. "You need to stay away from him." She instructed. "Angel, too."

"We're gonna find him, with or without your help, lady." Doyle retorted. "Angel's out there looking right now."

"Well, you'd better hope he doesn't get too close." Lilah clarified. "Billy is untouchable—I mean that literally. He's an infection—he brings out the primordial misogyny in any man who comes into contact with him. Turns them into killers. And then he sits back and watches."

Cordelia's head swung in Doyle's direction and the two shared a panicked glance. If there was any man's bad side they didn't want to see, it was most certainly Angel's.

Turning her hardened gaze back on Lilah, Cordelia's voice flew from her lips like daggers. "Where is Billy going?"


	19. Billy, Part 3

**19\. Billy, Part III**

Cordelia's heels clicked rapidly over the concrete, while Doyle's rubber souls squeaked beside her. They were both sprinting toward the Blim's private family jet at the far end of the tarmac—Billy's ticket to freedom, gassed and ready to go. If he took off in that plane, they'd never be able to stop him. He'd be free to spread his infection far and wide. If his reign of terror didn't end here and now, it wouldn't end at all.

And that wasn't exactly an option Cordelia could live with.

As they got closer to the jet, they could see the male figure crossing the tarmac from the opposite direction—a figure they could plainly identify as Billy Blim. Doyle was surprised when Cordelia slowed her pace, rather than increasing it. She stretched an arm out in front of his body, halting him in his tracks. Then she yanked the crossbow out of her bag. "You can't come with me this time."

"Doesn't matter how responsible ya feel, Cordy—y'can't take this guy down singlehandedly." Doyle objected. "He's dangerous. Y'know what he could do to ya?"

"I know what _you_ could do to me if you get to close to him." She answered, looking Doyle dead in the eye. She didn't have to say anything else, she'd already won the fight and they both knew it. "Do you think turning into Jack Nicholson from _The Shining_ will help this situation? Or can you just accept that I have to do this myself? _"_

Doyle swallowed hard, knowing she was right. Knowing that as dangerous as Billy was, his real power was using other men. If Doyle was infected by his homicidal misogyny, there may be no coming back from that. Not for him, or her, or _them_ … It was the only thing that made his feet stay firmly planted to the ground as Cordelia began moving away from Doyle, in the direction of Billy and his idling plane.

"Killing a man won't be easy." He called out to her. That was an understatement. Killing a man, even one as evil as Billy, may change her far more than the visions ever could.

"He's not a man." She seethed over her shoulder, lifting the crossbow and pointing it in Billy's direction as she continued to stomp her way across the tarmac.

Doyle hung back, safely out of range. If he had thought he was powerless before—watching as the visions took their toll on the woman he loved—it was nothing compared to what he felt right now. He couldn't even stand beside her; couldn't even offer his silent support. He could do nothing but watch as she faced off against this malevolent creature who wore the face of a man.

He just hoped she wouldn't hesitate. She couldn't afford to hesitate.

Cordelia had Billy's attention now. Doyle could see that words were being exchanged between the two adversaries—they were taunting each other. As the seconds ticked by, he began to second-guess the wisdom of letting Cordelia go through with this without any reinforcement. In the very least, he should have kept the crossbow for himself. Why hadn't he thought of that?!

Because she needed it, that's why. Because she wouldn't rest until Billy was stopped. Because, at this very moment, she was the only one _capable_ of stopping Billy. She had to do it. It had to be her.

Moving closer to her opponent, Cordelia shoved the tip of the crossbow into Billy's jugular and that's when a flurry of faster-than-human movement caught Doyle's inhuman eye. It was Angel! Doyle had been so focused on Cordelia and Billy that he hadn't noticed his friend entering the frame; but now he saw the vampire clear as day as he knocked the weapon out of Cordelia's hands and warned her off from the fight.

"No! No!" Doyle yelled, his feet began flying forward before his brain had time to catch up. "Get away from him!" As he raced toward the action, he morphed into his spikes to increase his speed. There wasn't a second to lose if he wanted to prevent his best friend from getting infected by this woman-hating psycho and ripping his girlfriend to shreds.

"Doyle, stay back!" Angel instructed, having spotted his friend's mad dash across the tarmac.

"Both of you stay back!" Cordelia shouted, searching for where her crossbow had landed. "He can't hurt me!"

"No, I won't hurt her." Billy's malevolent voice carried over the pavement, echoing in an unnatural way. "I won't hurt her at all!"

And then it happened. Billy Blim laid his hands on Angel and Doyle felt a surge of panic knock the wind right out of his chest.

Despite the superhuman speed he had at his disposal, Doyle suddenly felt like he was running in slow motion. Watching Cordelia stumble backward in slow motion. Watching Angel turn to glare at her—ordering her to run before he erupted into violence—that was in slow motion, too. Things had barely returned to regular speed as Doyle finally made it close enough to be of help—or, God forbid, further harm.

Just then, Angel spun around to face Billy and rammed his fist into the other man's face. "You have no power over me."

"Oh, thank God!" Doyle uttered, collapsing forward to catch his breath. Beside him, he could hear Cordelia's giant sigh of relief as well. Facing off against Billy was one thing, but facing off against Angel was an entirely different scenario—one neither of them had been prepared for.

Doyle lifted his head toward the action, still out of breath from his exertion, not to mention the near-heart attack he'd given himself on the way. He saw at once that he didn't have as much to be thankful for as he'd originally thought. Angel may be capable of fighting Billy, but Billy was no average man. He had strength and power, and was currently _using_ that power to kick Angel's ass.

"Where's that crossbow?" Doyle sputtered, searching the shadowy ground nearby for a way to assist Angel, without actually stepping into the fray. Angel might be immune to Billy's thrall, but Doyle doubted he'd fare as well. Still, he had to do _something_ to tilt the odds in favor of team "good."

Cordelia found the discarded weapon first, lifting it from its place beside the front wheel of the jet. She trained the sharp wooden arrow on the two rapidly moving bodies, determined to fire, despite the fact that she didn't have a clear shot. Doyle's breath caught in his throat as her finger twitched on the trigger—

 _Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

A rapid succession of gunshots startled them all, and ended with the decisive _thud_ of a body hitting the ground.

It felt almost dreamlike. A shower of bullets coming just in the knick of time. But it was no dream. It was Lilah Morgan. She lowered her gun, eyeballing the dead heap of Billy on the pavement. Then, she turned on her designer heels and left the scene the same way she'd arrived, without so much as a cursory glance in their direction.

Doyle quirked a brow—apparently Lilah wasn't as unflappable as she seemed.

As Angel pushed himself off the ground and moved toward Billy's body, giving it a nudge with his toe, Doyle turned to find Cordelia still aiming the crossbow at the empty space where Billy stood a few seconds prior; it didn't look like she was planning to put the weapon down. In fact, it didn't look like she even realized the fight was over.

"Cordy." He said her name softly and got no response. Morphing back into his human face, Doyle gently placed a hand on the small of her back to rouse her from her trance. Only then did Cordelia's eyes drift upward, softening as they connected with his.

"It's over?" She asked hopefully, although she already knew the answer.

"It is." Doyle agreed, plucking the crossbow from her now unclenched hands. "Case closed."

* * *

Cordelia pressed an icepack to the sizable lump growing on Gunn's head. He grimaced as it made contact, but then raised his own hand to hold it securely in place. "Thanks."

"Fred really did a number on you." Cordelia remarked, folding her arms across her chest as she stared down at her wounded teammate. "Looks like you're growing a second head."

Angel, Doyle and Cordelia had returned to the Hyperion to find two unconscious male co-workers and one badly shaken Fred. Which was much better than what they could have found, considering both Wesley and Gunn had been exposed to Billy's blood specimen, and subsequently, infected by his primordial misogyny.

Gunn hadn't fared too badly, having had the presence of mind to insist that Fred knock him out before he was too far-gone to control himself. But, apparently, Wesley hadn't been quite as fortunate, instead descending into that _Shining_ -esque territory that Cordelia had warned Doyle about earlier that evening.

"Girl's got a great swing." Gunn agreed, with a hint of appreciation. "It looks like a much bigger woman knocked me out, right?"

Fred's head peeped out from behind the bathroom door in the reception area. She was carrying a full glass of water in her now-steady hands and her face a mask of concern rather than fear. "I'm _so_ sorry, Charles. Does it hurt a lot?"

Turning toward her as she approached, Gunn kept the icepack firmly over the small mountain growing out of his head. "Don't be sorry. I sure ain't. If you hadn't brained me with the chair leg, I'd be feeling way worse than I do right now."

A wavering smile flickered across Fred's face as she sunk down beside him on the circular sofa. "I-I can hold the ice pack." She offered hesitantly, as she handed him the glass of water. "It's the least I can do."

"As long as you don't let it get out that you kicked my ass." Gunn said with chuckle, allowing Fred to take over the icepack duties. "Could ruin my rep."

Cordelia observed her two friends, relieved to see there were no hard feelings between the two of them. Lifting her gaze to the courtyard, Cordelia caught the eye of one of the men lurking on the other side of the glass partition.

Doyle gazed back at Cordelia through the glass; a silent communication exchanging between them.

It could have been him—it could have been Doyle who had lost his mind and terrorized the woman he loved tonight. It could have been… but it wasn't. Not this time.

Turning away from the scene inside the lobby, Doyle focused his attention on the man who sat hunched over on one of the concrete benches. Wesley—poor, broken Wesley. He, too, had been offered an icepack, but his sat melting on the ground rather than relieving the swollen bump on his head. His eyes stayed glued to the puddle slowly expanding across the cobblestones.

"It wasn't your fault, man." Doyle broke the silence, trying to rouse the other man from his self-imposed purgatory. "And Fred—she knows that. She knows you weren't yourself in there."

Wesley said nothing for a long minute, and Doyle started to wonder if his words had merely fallen on deaf ears. But then Wesley's Adam's apple bobbed, indicating that he had heard and was slowly working to put his response into words. "It was a part of me. Wasn't it?" His head lifted ever-so-slightly, his eyes still veiled in shadow. "Something buried deep inside."

"The slightest spark of it, maybe." Doyle allowed, sauntering across the uneven footing and plopping himself down on the empty bench across from his friend. "It's in all of us. But it woulda never surfaced if ya hadn't been whammied with psycho-blood. You're a good man, Wes, and there's not a man, woman or _Fred_ among us who'd disagree on that point."

"I tried to kill her." Wesley choked in disgust, dropping his head farther toward his lap. "I can't… I need to…"

"Get over it." Doyle suggested, leaning his elbows on this thighs as he tried to talk Wesley off the proverbial ledge of self-torture. "Listen, bud. Ya probably think I can't possibly understand what you're going through, yeah? Well, you'd be wrong 'bout that… See, last year, when we had that little encounter with the Shroud of Rahmon, I did some things to Cordy I wasn't too proud of. I _thought_ some things that were even worse. And the worst part was knowing what I was capable of—knowing that all that was living in me somewhere, just waitin' to get out."

"If memory serves, you and Cordelia broke up not long after that event." Wesley argued gruffly. "I doubt that was a coincidence."

"Not saying I'm the best example. I have a fairly lousy track record when it comes to getting over my personal demons… see also, my failed first marriage and the fact that I, personally _,_ _am_ a demon." Doyle smarted in reply. "Do as I say, not as I do—just work with me here, man."

Wesley sucked in a sharp breath, rubbing at his eyes. Although, Doyle couldn't see the other man's face clearly, he suspected the action was meant to brush away tears before they fell. The slight warble in Wesley's voice seemed to confirm that guess. "I appreciate your attempt to empathize, Doyle. But it's not the same. Billy's blood didn't make me crazy—it tapped into something primal." Wesley maintained, taking another swipe at his eyes. He sniffed and then used the most professional voice he could muster under the circumstances. "I trust that you'll be able to manage things for a few days, while I… _ahem_ , take some personal time."

"Yeah, sure." Doyle promised, his brow furrowing with pity as he observed the downward slump of the other man's shoulders and his slow shuffle deeper into the shadows. "Take whatever ya need, man. Just… come back."

* * *

 **A/N - Well, there's "Billy" for you. I know it was long anticipated and I hope I did it justice. I chose not to have Doyle get infected because I thought it'd be too similar to my Shroud of Rahmon rewrite, only much darker and more disturbing. Plus, I preferred having him act as Cordy's sidekick throughout the episode, having her back without stealing her thunder. And, of course, the loofah situation was a MUST! ;)**


	20. Offspring, Part 1

**20\. Offspring, Part I**

"Full house," Doyle announced, laying his cards on the table with a tentative smirk. Aside from Penny, directly to his left, there were five other men seated at the table, none of which were men, strictly-speaking. In fact, only one of the five other players looked remotely human, and Doyle could tell by the stench of the guy, that looks could be deceiving. The other four didn't even come close.

They did have something in common, though. Every single demon in the room looked capable of leaping across the table and ripping Doyle limb from limb—and they all looked like they _wanted_ to do exactly that. If it weren't for the fact that the table in question belonged to Penny, and therefore, he called the shots, Doyle suspected these guys would have already torn him apart, whether they could beat his hand or not.

"I fold." The human-ish demon grumbled, tossing his cards facedown on the table.

"Grrrrr." The large demon beside him made some kind of guttural noise and mimicked the gesture. There were a few other mumbles, some in English, some not, as the other demons followed suit.

Doyle swallowed nervously as he eyed the purple-faced beast sitting directly across from him. The thing looked like a cross between a Muppet and the Predator, with wide plumes of fur growing out of various parts of its anatomy, and hooded eyes that gave the impression it could easily rip Arnold Schwarzenegger in half. A hiss emanated from the creature and Doyle didn't need to speak its language to know it was threatening him with violence. Trying his best not to react—the last thing he needed to do was let these guys see his fear—Doyle hoped he hadn't made a fatal error in relying on Penny's protection this night.

"Give it a rest, Xenok." Penny said from his place beside Doyle. Leaning forward, he stubbed out a cigarette in a nearby ashtray and then tossed his own cards down on the table, which revealed his four of a kind. "Looks like it ain't Doyle's night, after all."

Reaching forward, Penny scooped the mound of chips toward his end of the table and began organizing them into colored piles. There was more grumbling from the other players, but it didn't sound nearly as hostile as it had been seconds earlier when it appeared Doyle was the winner.

The purple demon stood from his chair rather abruptly, training his bug eyes briefly on Penny before storming toward the exit, giving his chair a swift kick on the way out. It shattered into a pile of splinters, the perfect punctuation to the creature's departure. Doyle flinched, but Penny merely rolled his eyes, as if this was a common occurrence at the end of the night.

Doyle remained motionless in his seat as the other demons began gathering what remained of their own piles of chips—in most cases, there wasn't much. When all that remained in the room was a half dozen empty chairs, a thick plume of smoke and his host, Doyle finally let out a breath he hadn't been consciously aware he was holding.

"I should've warned you… winning would've been a stupid thing to do." Penny noted, keeping his eyes on his chips as he meticulously stacked them into towers.

Doyle snorted, pointing a finger at the impressive hand Penny spread on the table between them. "So, do I have to wait 'til ya leave the room to see your real hand?"

"Nah, the illusion'll hold even after I leave the room." Penny chortled in reply, placing his last chip onto the stack and then leaning back in his chair. "I'da been dead a long time ago if it didn't." He opened his jacket and reached into his breast pocket, where he procured another cigarette. He wasn't wearing his fedora this evening; therefore his modest set of horns was on full display. He held the pack out in Doyle's direction, but Doyle waved away the offer.

Penny popped his own smoke between his lips, lit it and then tossed his lighter down on the table beside his multiple stacks of chips. "You understand, I gotta keep the winnings. Being a suspected cheat's one thing, but I can't afford to have folks thinking I've gone soft. Unlike you, I don't have a vamp best friend to watch my back and, sue me, but I like breathing."

"I didn't come here for the money." Doyle reminded the other man with a glower.

Penny's eyebrows shot up and a curious smile fell across his lips as he studied Doyle closely. "Be honest, is this an invasion of the body snatchers situation? 'Cause no way you're the same Doyle I used to know. That guy would've _insisted_ on taking the money and then run straight to the track to blow it. Those visions must be worse than I thought if you're that desperate for a cure."

Doyle shifted in his chair, and then reached for a nearly empty bottle of warm beer that rested on the table beside him. He didn't lift the bottle to his lips, instead spinning it in place and toying with the peeling label. "Somethin' like that." He muttered, unwilling to admit they were no longer _his_ visions, which, in fact, made him even more desperate for said cure.

"Wanna know what I think?" Penny asked rhetorically, taking a drag off his cigarette and puffing it out in a series of lazy O-shapes. "If you're willing to gamble with your life, then stop wasting your time with the middle-men. Go straight to the head honchos—grand prize, baby."

"Gambling is one thing; certain death is another." Doyle answered with a sigh, kneading his knuckles against his temple. "This your way o' telling me you've got nothing?"

Penny's eyes narrowed as he continued to try and read Doyle's thoughts. Finally, he gave up, sniffling as he flicked his cigarette ashes into a nearby ashtray. "Wouldn't have called you if I had _nothing_. But the something I got ain't exactly the thing you were looking for."

Doyle raised a brow. "What is it?"

"Right up your alley." Penny assured him, reaching into his breast pocket once again and this time procuring a folded piece of paper, which he placed on the table and slid in Doyle's direction. It appeared to be an address.

"No alleys in that part o' town, bud." Doyle observed, reading the inked characters on the small square of paper that corresponded with what he knew to be an affluent neighborhood on the west side. "Just what is it I'm supposed to find there?"

Penny extinguished his butt in the ashtray, coughing into his fist before he turned to stare Doyle right in the eye. "Ever hear of the Nyazian scroll?"

* * *

Technically, Doyle had never _heard_ of the Nyazian scroll or the prophecy inscribed upon it. Not with his ears, anyway. Which wasn't to say that he didn't _know_ about the scroll. In fact, he knew far more than he wanted to know. And he'd been expecting it to surface.

Anticipating. Or was it dreading? He really couldn't tell anymore.

He knew the Nyazian Prophecy was necessary to the mission; but was it a necessary good or a necessary _evil_? That was the part he wasn't so certain about. And the funny thing about prophecies was their proclivity to self-fulfill.

Even as he crouched in the bushes beside Wesley, peering up at the looming Brentwood mansion that supposedly housed a significant portion of the mysterious artifact… Doyle had to wonder if they should be pursuing the scroll at all.

Yes. The answer was obviously yes. If the prophecy was as dangerous as Doyle suspected, it was better off in the hands of Angel Investigations over Wolfram & Hart, or any other would-be scroll seekers. Not to mention that without the confounding prophecy, they may not be able to bring Connor into the world in the first place, which would make every action Doyle had taken over the course of the last two years—or purposely _not_ taken, for that matter—entirely moot.

So, yes, retrieving the scroll was absolutely necessary. To _not_ retrieve it would be negligent.

Wesley rustled the branches around them, as he brought his wrist up to eye level. He was dressed from head to toe in his best _Mission_ _Impossible_ get up. Black pants, black turtleneck, black knitted cap. It was as if he'd purposely chosen to dress up as a burglar. Doyle, on the other hand, sported his usual jeans, colorful button down and brown leather jacket. Between the two of them, Doyle felt he blended slightly better to their current surroundings.

Not that he could ever truly _blend_ in Brentwood. Cordelia, on the other hand…

"Gunn should've been back by now." The Englishman noted, his eyes shifting to the large window just above their heads. "Do you suppose he was…?" There was an ominous gulp as his words trailed off.

"Eaten alive by a pack o' angry Dobermans?" Doyle suggested glibly.

"Oh, dear." Wesley muttered, his eyes growing wider. Breaking and entering wasn't exactly his forte.

Letting out a muted chuckle, Doyle shook his head. "Those steaks hadda be way tastier than Gunn. Besides, I didn't hear any screams o' agony. I'm thinkin' the tranquilizers did their job."

"Maulings aren't typically quiet activities." Wesley agreed, letting out a slight sigh of relief. He began pawing through his sack of B&E equipment, procuring a suction cup from the jumble of fancy electronic equipment and climbing paraphernalia that was poking out of the bag. "The alarms and vid lines are disabled—we have a twenty minute window before they reset. We should begin phase two."

Doyle raised a brow, but remained mum. Whatever happened next was bound to be entertaining, if not effective. He just hoped the entertainment didn't end with both of them behind bars.

As Wesley slowly rose to standing position, Doyle followed suit. Both men scanned the expanse of the empty garden. It was a little strange that Gunn was nowhere to be found, but Doyle's preternatural demon senses didn't detect any reason to be alarmed. Nor were there any _actual_ alarms blaring, which was also a good sign.

Wesley's brow wrinkled as he inspected the thick panes of glass that lined the window and then he eyeballed the inside of his suction cup. "Doyle… can I ask you a question?"

"If you're about to ask if I can pick a lock, I'd say that was something ya shoulda checked _before_ we disarmed the place." Doyle scolded, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. "But, yeah, I could probably manage that door over there." Although he didn't often advertise his B &E skills, it was an area for which Doyle did have some experience. And it had to be a better plan than letting Wesley do whatever he was planning to do with that suction cup.

"That wasn't what I was—you think you can pick the lock?" Wesley interrupted his own thought as he registered Doyle's offer. His brows went upward and he gestured toward the back door that stood five feet to their right.

Doyle nodded his agreement of the new plan and the two of them returned to their previous position, squatting in the shrubbery. Wesley haphazardly jammed his extra-large suction cup back inside the duffle bag at his feet and then slung it over his shoulder.

The two thieves slowly began inching their way toward the rear entrance of the house. "My question's actually more of a… _personal_ nature." Wesley continued his previously aborted thought as they swooshed through the low-hanging branches.

"How personal?" Doyle asked skeptically, as he studied the lock up ahead, which seemed basic enough.

"I'd say moderately so." Wesley clarified. "It's just… _ahem_. Well, you see, I'm in need of some advice. And of my current options for counsel, you seem the most logical—"

"Just ask the damn question, Wesley?" Doyle interrupted gruffly, as he finally got to the edge of the row of bushes and scooted closer to the back door. He could only hope that Wesley would arrive somewhere adjacent to the point sooner rather than later, otherwise their mission may very well _become_ impossible.

"Fred." Wesley peeped in reply.

"Huh." Doyle replied dully, twisting his body around so that he was angled toward the blushing Englishman squatting beside him.

"I…" Wesley's lips moved into soundless shapes. He shifted his weight and then cleared his throat aggressively, starting the process over. The second time, he was able to form actual sounds. "Due to the, um… _incident_ a few weeks ago… well, I suppose I'd like to make things up to her, in an effort to… _you_ _know_. Anyway, do you suppose flowers would be appropriate under the circumstances? Or a meal, preferably in a fine dining establishment? Or should I start with something more subtle, like a limited edition copy of Steven Hawking's _A Brief History of Time_ , which as it so happens, I recently obtained from—."

"Wesley." Doyle held up a hand to halt the other man's incessant babbling. Out of all the things he wanted to discuss with Wesley, the man's love life wasn't on the top of the list—or on the list at all.

"I'm prattling on again, aren't I?" Wesley replied abashedly.

"Little bit." Doyle agreed with a pointed raise of his brows. "And I dunno, man. I might not be the right person to ask for dating advice. Fifty percent o' my long-term relationships ended with me getting' walked out on. Actually, if ya count the time Cordy left me, it's closer to a hundred."

"No. Right. Of course." Wesley bumbled in reply. "It was silly of me to think you'd know any more about wooing Fred than I do."

"I know ya shouldn't use the word 'wooing'." Doyle mocked.

Wesley barely registered the dry retort. "Perhaps, Cordelia's a better choice to steer me in the right direction."

At that moment, the back door swung open, causing both Doyle and Wesley to lurch backward, landing roughly on their backsides. They stared panic-stricken at the looming figure in the doorframe.

"I got your direction right here, English." Gunn announced, gesturing to the apparently empty house behind him.

"You… _How_ …?" Wesley stammered pointing dumbly to the inside of the house where Gunn stood comfortably, as if he belonged there.

Gunn shrugged. "Who needs locks when you got a million dollar alarm system and an army of attack dogs? Now you two wanna stop playing around in the bushes and help me find this ancient scroll thing before the 5-0 rolls up and hauls our asses to jail?"

* * *

"That's it. Don't pull your punches." Angel instructed, as Cordelia whipped her fists through the air, missing Angel's face by mere centimeters. "You're doing great."

Cordelia swung again, thinking she'd be doing even better if she could actually connect with something, but that was the beauty of training with Angel. There was little danger of her actually connecting, and even if she did, it wasn't like she could hurt him. Or herself, since he didn't have any spikes, like certain other demons she'd trained with in the past.

A shuffle from the basement steps caused Cordelia to abandon her punch midway through its journey through the air. "Sure you don't wanna turn, Fred?" She asked their quiet onlooker. Lowering her fists, Cordelia tossed the question over her shoulder at the small woman who'd been restlessly watching the sparring match. "Could help with all that nervous energy that's kinda making me, y'know, _nervous_."

"Oh no. I'm pretty sure you'd beat me." She replied with a shrug, causing Cordelia to laugh at the oddity of Fred's reply. "I guess I am a little nervous," she continued. "I mean, it's not every day you hear the apocalypse might be coming."

"Clearly, you didn't grow up in Sunnydale." Cordelia remarked, exchanging a knowing glance with Angel.

"I wonder how precise the Nyazian calculations will be?" Fred wondered curiously, looking as if the wheels in her head were spinning furiously. "Will we be able to tell when the end is coming down to the exact nanosecond? Or will it be more of a ballpark figure, y'think?"

"I doubt we have anything to worry about." Angel replied easily. "These prophecies surface every now and then. 'Something terrible's coming.' 'The world will end.' In my experience, they tend to exaggerate."

"So, what you're saying is my boyfriend's out there risking possible incarceration for no good reason?" Cordelia asked grumpily. "We don't have the petty cash to bail one person out of jail, much less three. If Doyle becomes some guy's bitch for non-apocalyptic reasons, we're gonna have a problem here."

Angel's face changed, hinting at an edge of nervousness. Cordelia suspected it wasn't due to the apocalypse as much as her disapproval. "Um… well, it's still a good idea to check. Just in case."

"It would be way worse if we didn't even know the end was near." Fred excitedly babbled from her place on the stairs. "Imagine if we were just going about our daily business, like we had all the time in the world, and then, _poof_! It's all sucked right into a hell dimension. I think it's better to know. That way you can say your goodbyes and eat a few extra tacos at dinner, just in case it's the last dinner you'll ever eat—oh, and we can try and stop it, of course. That's sorta the main thing."

"Yeah, lucky us." Cordelia deadpanned in reply.

"It is a good thing we found out about it." Angel agreed. "Even if it doesn't pan out, we don't want something like this to fall into the wrong hands."

With that statement, Angel moved back into his fighting stance and waved Cordelia toward him to continue their combat training. She maneuvered herself into an offensive position, found her balance and raised her fists. As she prepared to let them fly, her eyes suddenly narrowed at the vampire opposite her. "Wait a sec—how _did_ we find out about it? Is there some kind of apocalypse newsletter I don't know about?"

"It was a… source." Angel said after a beat. An awkward beat. A beat that reminded her what a terrible liar he was.

She swung her right fist without warning. "Who's source?"

Angel deftly danced out of her reach and then back toward her again, nodding for her to try again. "Uh..." He gave a little shrug. "Y'know, I don't remember."

Now she had definite confirmation that there was something Angel was not telling her. "Do you think I was born yesterday?" She baulked, eyeing him over the rims of her knuckles. "You might as well hold up a neon sign that says it was Doyle's source."

"Oh, that's right." Angel relented with an uncomfortable chuckle. "It was probably Doyle's source."

Despite the admission, Angel was still acting cagey, which made Cordelia suspect there was more to the story—more that Angel was trying not to divulge. Cordelia threw a sideways glance toward Fred, who seemed to be rather interested in the ceiling, signaling that even the newest member of the AI team knew that Doyle was up to something that Cordelia herself had not been informed about.

"That's odd, considering Merl's dead and Doyle isn't supposed to _have_ any other sources." Cordelia mused with a scowl. "Did Wesley sign off on this? Because I certainly didn't approve an increase to our first aid budget!"

"It's not like before." Angel tried to laugh it off, but then looked like he was second-guessing himself. "Doyle's just… gathering information."

"Do I really have to remind _you_ , of all people, that Doyle's old sources were bookies, loan sharks and fellow gamblers, the majority of which, he owed money to?" She snapped in reply. "You _really_ think he could just go and round up some hot tips on the apocalypse without _owing_ something to somebody?!"

She swung wildly, venting her frustration with her full strength… and she made contact! "Oops!" She cried as her fist unexpectedly connected with Angel's nose, sending him reeling around with his back to her. His shoulders hunched up defensively and she could see that he'd raised his hands to his face. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Angel turned to her with a slightly too-tight smile and a casual wave of his hand. "I'm a vampire. You can't hurt me."

"It's not about the money." Cordelia clarified, seeing that Angel was fine and seguing back to the topic at hand. "Doyle could get hurt. _Or worse_."

Angel nodded, acknowledging that the concerns she had were real and that he wasn't as oblivious to them as he was portending. "Trust him, Cordelia. He wouldn't let what happened before happen again—neither would I." His brow furrowed slightly and he tentatively touched the bridge of his nose. "Am I swelling?"

Rolling her eyes, Cordelia took a step closer to inspect the damage she'd inflicted on Angel's face. She swatted his hand away and took his cheeks into her hands, guiding his face up toward the light so she'd have a better view. "I think that bump was always there." She observed, twisting his head slightly in the other direction to continue her examination.

"Bump?" Angel echoed, his brow furrowing deeper as he reached up to feel it for himself. His fingers brushed over hers, which were still cupping his face. "There's a bump?"

As Cordelia continued to squint up at Angel's non-injured nose, she heard the familiar rapid thud of footsteps descending the basement stairs. The sound of Doyle's voice soon followed. "Ah… hey."

"You're fine." Cordelia assured Angel, releasing his face from her grasp and redirecting her attention to the half-demon leaning over the banister, who looked white as a sheet, which was to say, only slightly whiter than usual. "And _you're_ not in jail."

"Did you get the scroll?!" Fred piped in eagerly from her seated position at the very bottom of the staircase.

Doyle's gaze had been fixed on Cordelia, briefly shifted to Angel, and only after an extended beat did he finally turn to acknowledge the woman seated just below him; he seemed surprised to see her there. And then his disposition altered, as if Fred's unanticipated presence was more of a relief than a shock. His head shook nearly imperceptibly as he cleared whatever mental cobweb he'd just walked through.

"Yeah, we got it." He finally answered, gesturing up the stairs behind him. "Wes could actually use your help with the translation bit, if you're up for it—sounds like there's just as much math as there is language."

Fred jumped up without hesitation and began rushing up the stairs. "I'm great with nanoseconds!" She cried right before disappearing into the lobby above.

As soon as Fred had swooshed by, Doyle's curious eyes migrated back in Cordelia's direction. "Everything a'right down here?" He wondered, as his eyes continued to volley between his girlfriend and his best friend, perhaps sensing the slight tension in the air.

"Peachy." Cordelia answered too-quickly, turning her back on Doyle. She wasn't looking for a confrontation at the moment—it would be better for both of them if she continued to digest the information about his dalliances with old sources while she punched someone she couldn't hurt. Her gaze found Angel who was still standing in the center of the mats, gently wiggling his nose. "Ready for round two?"

Angel's eyes opened wide with objection, but then he caught Cordelia's agitated expression and nodded reluctantly. "Uh huh."

"Then put 'em up!" Cordelia chirped, raising her own fists and bouncing back and forth as she'd seen professional boxers do on TV. Angel followed her instructions, albeit not quite as enthusiastically.

From over her shoulder, Cordelia could hear Doyle shuffle uncomfortably on the staircase, probably feeling like the third wheel she'd just made him out to be. "'Kay, guess I'll just… be upstairs."

Even after he'd made his announcement, she knew he lingered there for an extra moment, watching as she and Angel began their sparring match once again. She half-expected him to continue with a running commentary the way he usually did, but instead the only sound she heard was his slowly retreating footsteps and the slight hitch of the door at the top of the stairs as it closed behind him.


	21. Offspring, Part 2

**21\. Offspring, Part II**

"When are you picking up your tux?" Cordelia asked the man who'd just perched himself on the corner of her desk, letting the heel of his shoe bang lightly against one of the wooden legs.

Doyle was focused on the dartboard hanging across the room. He had just relinquished the handful of colorful pointy darts over to his opponent, who was thankfully Gunn, rather than Wesley. Playing with Wesley was no fun, since he always won. With Gunn, Doyle at least had a shot.

He slowly turned his head toward Cordelia, her question drawing a rather large blank. "Ya changing the dress code around here, darlin'?"

"For Kelly and Ben's wedding on Saturday." She reminded him, lacking amusement over his forgetfulness. "The one _you_ insisted we go to and that my friend is now _expecting_ us to attend. Don't tell me you forgot."

"I wouldn't say I _forgot_." Doyle fibbed unconvincingly. "I just hadn't realized it was this Saturday."

He had forgotten. Of course, he had. But, he couldn't actually admit that, not after he'd made such a big deal about them going out and enjoying themselves. After all, it wasn't like the currently pending apocalypse was a _new_ thing. They'd known it was coming for a while. And the Nyazian scroll was merely a harbinger—a glorified guidebook, really. It didn't actually cause the end of time—at least, Doyle didn't _think_ it did.

Maybe he should have thought a little longer and harder about that whole necessary good versus necessary evil thing…

"Last February!" Fred announced from her corner of the reception area, where she was hunched over her laptop. "No, wait. That's not right… maybe it was more like March."

"Never mind. You're off the hook." Cordelia quipped, waving a disinterested hand in the air. "The world's already ended."

 _Fwap!_

One of Gunn's darts hit the soft cork of the target. "Wouldn't we know if we were standing in the middle of the apocalypse?"

"Not necessarily." Wesley piped in, pacing through the doorway of his office to better pontificate in the spaciousness of the reception area. "The text predicts the arrival or arising of the Tro-Clon, the person or being that brings about the ruination of mankind—or, purification, depending on the translation."

"Or both. Like that whole Shanshu bit, yeah?" Doyle suggested, giving Wesley a pointed glance. "What's it say 'bout _how_ the thing is born? A ritual or whatnot?"

"It's not an instruction manual, Doyle." Wesley chided, pausing momentarily in his pacing and then picking it right back up. "And I don't think 'born' is quite the right word. This entity could already exist without having yet caused the probable destruction that has been prophesied."

Doyle frowned at Wesley's dismissal, once again having to consider both the necessity and the true nature of the ancient scroll in his coworker's hands. Perhaps it had been better off in that locked safe back in Brentwood.

"You know how there's some questions you don't really wanna know the answer to." Gunn replied with a frown.

"Rhetorical questions are probably the only ones we can answer right now." Fred supplied, shooting Gunn a quick smile. "These calculations are still very preliminary. I'll have to run the numbers again to be sure."

Cordelia used the pencil in her hand to direct Doyle's attention to the front doors. "Looks like you aren't saved by the end of the world after all. I suggest you at least _order_ the tux today; I shutter to think what you have in your closet as a substitute." With that, she slid her rolling chair away from her desk, half-twirled it around and popped out of it in one fluid motion. She strutted away from the reception area, heading toward the main staircase with an unknown purpose.

Gunn offered Doyle the handful of darts he'd just retrieved from the board, but Doyle waved them away. Hopping off the edge of Cordelia's desk, he followed hastily in her trail.

"Hey, Cordy. Wait up." He called, scuttling along behind her and catching her around the waist, right before she began to ascend the staircase. He spun her around and was met with a quizzical gaze. "I, ah… I'm sorry for letting the wedding thing slip my mind."

"I'm not mad about that." She said, although there was something decidedly lukewarm about her demeanor; something he'd felt ever since he'd come back to the office… when he'd found her training in the basement with Angel. "Honestly, I'm not even surprised. I _am_ , however, wondering how I ever let you talk me into it in the first place—told you it was a bad idea."

"That's where you're wrong, Princess. It's gonna be a great!" He assured her, sliding his arms snuggly around her waist and leaning into her. "Ya shouldn't take my forgetfulness as a sign o' disinterest—there's nothing more I want than a romantic evening with you. A moment to just be _us_ without anything else getting in our way. And in case I haven't said it enough lately—I love you, Cordy. More than anything."

He nearly held his breath as he waited to gauge her reaction. Relief poured through him as her steely gaze softened. "You're really scared, huh?"

"Ah…" Doyle was taken aback, wondering how she could have possibly picked up on his fear—a fear she knew nothing about. A fear he was having trouble even acknowledging for himself. He tilted his head from one side to the other as he weighed his answer. "Doesn't make what I said any less true."

"All this gushy stuff is about the prophecy, right?" She surmised, narrowing her eyes with curiosity. "And not anything else—like, say, you owing money to the wrong demon bookie?"

Okay, so maybe she wasn't picking up on his fears, after all. His forehead wrinkled involuntarily, as he absorbed her unexpected question. "Are we talking about my fears or yours, darlin'?"

A puff of breath escaped her lips as she seemed to reconsider whatever minor argument she'd been drumming up inside her head. "We're… _not_ talking. About anything. Just forget it, okay."

"Hey, hey, wait a minute—maybe I wanna talk." He urged, trying to disperse the final layer of tension that hovered between them. He brought a thumb to her cheek, and tenderly caressed the apple of color visible there. "I don't want us falling into old destructive patterns. Last thing we need is distance between us at a time like this. So, if there's something on your mind, Princess—get to the sayin' bit, yeah?"

The hint of a smile played across her lips as she relaxed into his arms, sliding her hands up toward his shoulders and then winding them around the back of his neck. "As a matter of fact, there is something on my mind… when you say you love me more than _anything_ , what does that mean exactly? Would you say you love me more than, oh, I dunno… _Ireland_?

"I do." He agreed without hesitation, a broad grin spreading across his lips. "I love ya more than the whole world. Losing you scares me way more than any apocalypse ever could."

Cordelia had already softened, but now she melted like butter against him, letting their noses connect as she whispered her own reply. "I love you, too." Her words danced feather light over his lips. "More than the solar system."

"Just hadda one-up me, yeah?" He chuckled, even as their lips met, effectively concluding their conversation. For a few delicious moments they got lost in each other, letting the Hyperion lobby and the possibly gawking coworkers slip away. Nothing mattered but the particles of air they shared between passionate kisses.

"You can order the tux later." Cordelia mumbled against his lips, her fingers pawing against the soft polyester of his shirt. "Right now, you need to take me upstairs and one-up _me_."

"Yeah?" He responded, with pleasant surprise. It'd been a while since they'd had a midday dalliance in the hotel or any other kind of dalliance for that matter. Not that he could blame it all on the visions—If it wasn't vision of a demon killing the mood, then an actual demon usually stepped in to complete the task.

"If the world's about to end, we should be _closer_." Cordelia purred into his ear, tugging him up the steps.

He nibbled on the soft flesh below her jaw, intoxicated by her scent. Finally, he released her so they could make a mad dash to the upper floors. But the dashing didn't happen. Instead, as they separated, Doyle became aware of a different scent—far less sensual, and much more haunting. Then he saw her—the petite blonde cloaked in red fabric who had just entered through the front door.

His heart nearly stopped inside his chest.

Cordelia, who had been holding his hand, found herself anchored in place rather than moving up the stairs. She turned toward him, confused as to why he was now standing there, staring blankly across the room; she continued to turn, following the line of his gaze and that's when she, too, saw their new visitor… and her jaw dropped open accordingly.

Standing there on the front landing was Darla. And despite being a vampire, she was _extremely_ pregnant.

"Hope you use protection, sweeties." Darla sneered in their direction, placing her hands over her protruding belly. "Or you could end up like me."

* * *

Darla stood in the middle of the circle of shocked faces—some more shocked than others. Doyle was certainly the least shocked. While Darla's sudden appearance had taken him by surprise, the sight of her very pregnant belly did not. First came the scroll, then came the baby. He may not have known the two packages would arrive so close together, but he had certainly known they were both on their way.

Beside him, Cordelia remained silently agape, nothing short of horrified by the unnatural site. She was still clutching his hand and her grip had gotten increasingly tighter until Doyle's hand began to throb. He could only imagine what was going through her head at this particular moment.

"This is impossible." It was Angel who broke the awed silence. He had appeared only seconds after Darla's arrival, probably sensing her from wherever he had been lurking.

"Tell me about it, _daddy_." Darla taunted in reply, placing her hands on her lower back as if to ease the aching—judging by the size of her, Doyle couldn't imagine there was any part of her that didn't ache.

Fred's nervous eyes continued to bounce from one silent observer to another as she tried to understand the current narrative. Gunn had made a brief mumbled attempt to catch her up, but quickly abandoned his explanation in favor of a chart they kept on hand for just such occasions—the fact that they needed such a thing said a lot about their line of work.

Wesley stood by guardedly, unsure whether he should be assisting their pregnant guest, or preparing to slay her.

"You slept with her?!" Cordelia's scratchy voice echoed throughout the lobby as she turned her pair of wounded eyes toward Angel. The accusation, loaded down by betrayal, sounded as if it was coming from a jilted lover.

"Vampires can't have children." Angel argued, cheating an uncertain glance to the only member of the group who may be able to debunk that theory. "Wesley?"

"No, no. He's right." Wesley stammered, gulping loudly as he focused on the curious state of Darla's abdomen. "This isn't possible."

"That's not what I asked." Cordelia corrected with an edge of warning. Her hand clenched so hard around Doyle's fingers that he expected his knuckles to crack under the pressure.

"I know that, and you know that…" Darla replied, placing an index finger over her belly button. "Tell _it_ that?"

Fred wrung her hands anxiously and gestured to the pile of paper and the laptop she'd abandoned on the counter. "Um… do y'all think this might be the bad thing we were expecting?"

Wesley's expression indicated that he'd been thinking very much the same thing, and in a way, he and Fred were right. Doyle suspected that young Connor _was_ the Tro-Clon from the prophecy, or at least, part of it—his untimely birth would lead to a series of events, which would rain down destruction on Los Angeles. Although the details were murky, Doyle had seen glimpses of the literal apocalypse. He'd felt the other Cordelia's pain and torment as the world unraveled around her. And in the middle of all of that, he'd seen Angel's son, playing an integral role in it all.

Connor's birth was a dangerous fork in the road. It could lead to so much death, destruction and darkness. It could lead to the _literal_ end of the world. But, Doyle knew there was another path, one that had previously been untaken. A path where Connor's life would bring joy rather than pain. Where the boy would grow up to be a savior rather than an annihilator. And it was Doyle's job to make sure they followed that alternate path this time around.

This was the most important thing Doyle had ever done or ever would do.

No matter the cost, Connor must be protected.

"It's not a bad thing." Doyle permeated the dense silence with his simple words. Multiple pairs of dubious eyes shifted in his direction, including those of Darla herself. "It's a miracle."

"I've been to every shaman and seer in the Western Hemisphere." The undead mother-to-be growled at Doyle, looking wholly unconvinced that his label was an appropriate one. "What do you know about it? What did Angel do to me?!"

Doyle felt the loss of contact with Cordelia's hand as she swiftly ripped it away from him. The color had drained from her face as she took a disbelieving step away from him, looking as if she'd been punched in the gut—or _shot_ in it. "Something bad that leads to something miraculous." She mumbled under her breath—the vague words of warning he'd shared with her long ago.

"Yeah." He answered, tossing a nervous glance over his shoulder at the others.

None of the humans present could hear Cordelia's words, but they could certainly read her body language. They could see the silent accusations in her eyes. Moments like this were difficult to navigate—moments when Doyle had to reveal his knowledge of things to come, while remaining coy about _how_ he knew them. It had been considerably easier when he was in possession of the visions. No one else knew exactly how his connection to the Powers worked and took for granted that they spoke through—and to—Doyle. Now, visionless as he was, Doyle just looked like a guy who'd known the truth for ages and had said nothing about it to his friends.

The offense written across Wesley's face overshadowed his curiosity; it was the only reaction that came close to rivaling Cordelia's. That wasn't a surprise. Even before he was "the boss" Wesley had always resented Doyle's withholding of need-to-know information. And this was a pretty big piece of information to be found withholding.

"I didn't do anything." Angel objected, too focused on his own role in the ordeal to be observing the silent communications between his teammates. "I mean, I did… but _this_ shouldn't have happened."

There were probably a lot of things Cordelia wanted to say in that moment, as evidenced by the variety of emotions that flickered across her face, but she settled on the one indictment that would raise the least amount of red flags amongst the clueless onlookers. Pointing a shaky finger at Darla, she raised her volume so the others could hear. "You _knew_ he slept with her."

He could hear the unspoken subtext of her words. _You wanted him to do it._

Doyle blew out a long breath and nodded his head, relieved by her small token of mercy. He knew Cordelia had a lot more to say on the matter and that he'd be in for a lengthy and heated discussion when they were alone, but for now, his girlfriend managed to temper her tsunami of feelings so as not to raise the suspicions of the others.

Turning his back on his quietly fuming girlfriend, Doyle addressed the rest of the group. He was obligated to shed some light on what was happening, not to mention, express the _importance_ of this situation. Protecting Connor wasn't just a job for Doyle, it was a job for the entire team. He needed them all on board.

"It's not what Angel did _to_ Darla—it's what he did _for_ 'er." Doyle explained as his eyes roamed over each member of the circle. "Last year, Angel fought—and won—a trial to save Darla's life, but she couldn't be saved. She'd already gotten her second chance, there are no thirds. Still… he earned a life and it was granted. Albeit, in an unconventional way."

Darla stared down at her pregnant belly with wonder and began rubbing it gently. If one didn't know she was a creature of evil, she would've looked like any other expectant mother, marveling at the miracle of life.

"Well, it makes a lot more sense than most things do around here." Gunn admitted with a shrug.

"What kind of life?" Wesley wondered, eyes still narrowed with trepidation. "Is it…?"

"Human." Doyle confirmed, his eyes wandering to that of his best friend as he finished the revelation. "It's not some evil _thing_. It's a baby... with a soul."


	22. Offspring, Part 3

**22\. Offspring, Part III**

Doyle and Angel leaned side by side over the banister on the second floor, overlooking the figures still ambling around the lobby below. Darla was resting on one of the plush red loungers, a glass of water sitting untouched on the small table beside her. Wesley had allowed Fred to place it there before quickly sweeping her back, safely out of Darla's reach. Meanwhile, Gunn leaned against the reception counter, conspicuously twirling a stake between his fingers—his eyes never left their new guest. Cordelia was nowhere to be seen; she'd excused herself not long after Darla's arrival, probably camped out in the small bathroom behind her desk trying to compose herself. It had to be difficult for her to be confronted with a very pregnant Darla, to be reminded of what could have been…

It was tough for Doyle as well, but he'd had time to come to terms with this scenario. He'd known for nearly nine months now that his loss would eventually be counterbalanced by Angel's gain. Furthermore, he knew Angel's gain—aka, his son—was always meant to be there, unlike Doyle's child, who was not.

Eventually, Cordelia would understand that, too. Eventually she'd accept it. But, right now, she was undoubtedly hurting, and it would take her some time to digest the cosmic irony.

"I get it now." Angel said, breaking the silence between them as his gaze stayed fixed on the pregnant blonde below. "Everything that happened last year—you let it all happen so I could be a father." He paused, and cocked his head slightly in Doyle's direction. "Unless… I mean, it wasn't the apocalypse you were going for, right?"

"Nah, man." Doyle answered with a hearty chuckle. "It's always been the dad bit."

"Oh… good." He replied, his eyes glazing over with gratitude. "I don't know what to say."

"No need to say anything." Doyle assured his friend. "Just doing my job." He shifted slightly, leaning only one elbow on the rail as he turned to face Angel head on. "Besides, I saw him; saw how happy he made ya. Being a dad is as close to perfect happiness as ya can get without the going evil part." He gestured down to the lobby below. "I couldn't let that change. Not for all the whiskey in Ireland."

Angel was silent for an extended moment, looking as if something Doyle had said had touched him deeper than he'd expected. It might've been the whiskey thing, since Angel knew how much Doyle loved his whiskey.

"Him?" The vampire finally choked out in undisguised awe. "I'm gonna have a son?"

He was visibly moved by the idea of not only being a father, but being a father to a son. It would forever alter Angel's connection to humanity, binding him to it for at least a generation, if not more. Doyle felt himself getting a little choked up as he sensed the emotion percolating beneath Angel's relatively placid surface.

"Thanking you doesn't feel like enough." Angel continued, raising his cloudy eyes to that of his best friend's. "I know what this cost you. And… I hope someday I can return the favor."

"There are no debts between us, man." Doyle answered, giving the vampire his sincerest half-smile accompanied by a friendly pat on the shoulder. Just then, a flutter of movement from below diverted their attention back over the railing.

It was Cordelia. She had collected herself, emerged from the bathroom and had proceeded directly to Darla's side, where she promptly took a seat beside the blonde. As if that wasn't bad enough, a moment later Cordelia added a comforting arm around Darla's shoulders, holding the vampire far too close to her jugular.

At Cordelia's reckless action, Doyle's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. There she was, completely unprotected, cradling a monster in her arms. He was tempted to morph into demon face and leap over the railing, but settled for hurrying his feet into motion toward the staircase. "Ah, watch it there, Princess!" He shouted as he took the steps two at a time and then continued propelling his body across the shiny lobby floor with Angel outpacing him by several yards.

Getting their first, Angel reached a cautious hand out toward Cordelia, as if he was a hostage negotiator talking someone off a ledge. "Just… step away. Nice and slow. It's okay."

"Back off!" Cordelia snapped, swatting Angel's hand away with annoyance and turning her flashing eyes on Doyle who finally caught up, stopping short at Angel's side. "Can't you see you're upsetting her? It's not good for the baby."

Wrinkling his brow with concern, Doyle took another step forward, trying to use the calmest voice he could muster under the circumstances. "Ah, Cordy. Might I remind ya, that's _Darla_ you're coddling there. Vampire without a soul. _Evil_ … ya hated her even when she _wasn't_ technically evil."

"I know who she is." Cordelia said defensively. "And I know what she's going through—pregnant and alone. It's a scary thing. She could really use a friend right now!"

"But… Darla." Angel repeated bewilderedly, as if no other argument was necessary.

"She's not a friend." Doyle elaborated, taking another tentative step forward and gesturing for Cordelia to move away from the blonde bloodsucker, who seemed terribly amused by Cordelia's naiveté and Doyle's mounting panic. "She's a killer. Way worse than Harmony, yeah?"

"You wanted her knocked up and here she is—knocked up!" Cordelia shouted, losing her patience and apparently no longer caring what she said in the presence of the others. Luckily, Wesley and Fred weren't present at the moment and Gunn never seemed to care about things he didn't understand—probably because there were so many of them. "If you don't think I'm gonna help this poor woman through this very difficult time, you have another thing coming, buster!"

Doyle stumbled back a few steps, raising his arms in surrender. He wasn't about to argue her point, even if it was blinding her to the danger she was putting herself in. Cordelia was already fuming, the last thing he needed was her storming off alone with her new _friend_. For that reason, he was going to have to bite his tongue and settle for keeping a watchful eye over the newly formed bosom companions.

The demon at Cordelia's side was smirking up at Angel and Doyle as she leaned into Cordelia's embrace. "Ohhh." Darla groaned, making a show of rubbing her lower back.

Cordelia's full attention turned back to the mother-to-be; she leaned over and lifted the glass of water, handing it to the other woman. "Have you seen a doctor?" She asked soothingly. "I think we should probably call one—you look like you could go into labor any minute now."

"No." Darla grunted in reply, accepting the glass of water and taking a miniscule sip. "It'll pass. I just have to let it. Is there some place I could… lie down?"

"Of course!" Cordelia agreed hurriedly. "This is a hotel—we have plenty of room. Let's get you upstairs where you can rest."

Doyle turned to share a concerned look with Angel; they were both on the same page—pregnant or not, Darla was dangerous. Maybe more dangerous than ever before.

A demon in sheep's clothing, waiting for the right opportunity to bare her fangs.

* * *

Cordelia fluffed the pillow behind Darla's head and settled herself down on the edge of the mattress, observing the other woman with undisguised curiosity. "Does it kick?"

According to Doyle, it was a human baby, but it was growing inside an inhuman body. To say its existence was a miracle, didn't quite do it justice. Regular life was a miracle. This was something else entirely.

"All the time." Darla complained, rubbing her basketball-shaped abdomen. "It's doing it right now—you can feel, if you want."

Cordelia knew she should hesitate—she knew the woman lying on the bed beside her wasn't a woman at all. Darla was a monster, responsible for murdering a roomful of lawyers, not to mention the hundreds or even thousands of people she'd killed before that. Logically, Cordelia knew the danger, but that didn't stop her from reaching out and placing her hand gently over Darla's belly to feel the small kicks emanating from within.

As she felt the tiny foot move under the layer of skin, a bittersweet smile flickered to her face. Memories flooded through her mind. "I was pregnant." Cordelia found herself admitting to the other woman, as she continued to feel the baby's movement against her palm. "Twice, actually."

"Is that why ol' blue-eyes is relegated to the hallway?" Darla asked wryly, referring to Doyle, who was undoubtedly pacing right outside the door along with Angel. They'd been unenthused about Cordelia's insistence that she could take care of Darla _alone_ , but she couldn't stand looking at either one of them at the moment. They were each responsible for this in their own way, and Cordelia had more important things to worry about—namely, the innocent baby who wasn't even born yet. "Fertile little demon, isn't he?"

"His eyes are green." Cordelia corrected absently, although she understood Darla's mistake. When they'd first met, she, too, had thought Doyle's eyes were the bluest blue eyes she'd ever seen. Over time she learned that they were so much more than that. With every change of his mood, she saw a new hue reflected through those windows, from deeply saturated to nearly colorless, and every one of them was beautiful. It was his driver's license that defined them merely as "green."

Her throat suddenly felt very dry as she pictured the baby that had never been born—the one she'd once envisioned having those very same eyes. Doyle had never known about that baby, not until it was too late. He'd never been given the chance to protect it. But, what he had known—what he had protected—was the child quickening in Darla's womb.

"The first time had nothing to do with Doyle—not directly anyhow. I was impregnated by a Haxil demon." Cordelia clarified. "I was out to here overnight—couldn't fit into anything other than overalls, chugging down Angel's blood supply. It was not a good look."

"Sounds awful." Darla said dryly.

"It was _terrifying_." Cordelia corrected, pausing briefly before clearing her throat. She didn't want to be opening up to Darla of all people, but she couldn't seem to help it. Her empathy for the other woman—and the baby inside her—was overwhelming. "The second time was different. The baby was mostly human for starters."

"And you got rid of it." Darla guessed. "I would've done the same, but I didn't have that option. This _thing_ is protected."

Cordelia swallowed hard against the bile that swiftly rose inside her throat. "I didn't get rid of anything." She corrected, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "It was taken from me, by a bullet."

"You're welcome to this one." Darla offered sarcastically. "I sure as hell don't want it."

"You will." Cordelia insisted, finally retracting her hand from Darla's abdomen as if it was a hot surface. "Even if you think you don't—it's biology."

"Pssh." Darla hissed, rolling her eyes. "Nothing about this is natural—so stop trying to make me feel for my baby the way you felt about yours. It's not the same thing."

Sucking in a sharp breath, Cordelia recoiled from the bed, Darla's words finally making an impact. "I guess it's not." She agreed, turning toward the bedside table, which held an empty mug that had previously been filled with pig's blood.

"I'm still hungry." Darla whined, eying the empty mug in Cordelia's hand and then redirecting her gaze somewhere a little more north—somewhere much closer to Cordelia's jugular.

"I'll get you some more." Cordelia offered, moving away from the bed, heading toward the front door of the suite. She came up short as Darla suddenly blocked her path, having moved preternaturally fast to get there.

"I can't drink any more of that slop!" Darla growled. Despite her small stature and current condition, Cordelia couldn't help but think how terrifying she looked in this moment. How _capable_ she looked of turning Cordelia into her next meal.

Backpedaling a few steps, Cordelia held up her hands defensively. She wasn't going to resort to violence against a pregnant woman unless she really had to. "I get it—you're drinking for two. Maybe I can get something special next time—how do you feel about lamb's blood? I've heard that's de-lish."

Darla was prowling forward, backing Cordelia into a corner with no intention of stopping, which is why Cordelia knew it was time to stop coddling and start putting her field training to use. "Stop right there or I'll make you stop, pregnant or not," Cordelia warned the other woman. When Darla didn't stop, Cordelia hauled off and punched her in the face, using all of her might... which, unfortunately, wasn't enough to stop the vampire in her tracks. Darla was too strong; too fierce; too hungry.

"Ahhhhh!" Cordelia screamed as Darla retaliated, throwing her backwards—Cordelia's body sailed through the air until it was stopped by the wall behind her. Her body was still paralyzed from the impact when she felt a sharp pain in her neck as a pair of fangs sunk deep into her flesh. Darla was on top of her, prepared to drain her dry.

And likely, Darla would have done exactly that if the door to the hotel room hadn't burst open revealing a Brachen demon in full spikes and a furious vampire.

Cordelia blinked rapidly, forcing her brain to try and keep up with the events that were unfolding around her. The pain in her neck had lessened, and she could see her attacker floating out of sight, fighting against Angel's vice-like grasp. Then Cordelia felt pressure on the side of her neck, which brought her eyes toward the demon face of her boyfriend—he was hovering there, focused on stopping the bleeding from her neck wound. "I gotcha." Doyle's soothing voice spoke from the deep green lips amidst their row of midnight blue quills. "That's it. Just breathe, love."

"Cordy okay?" Gunn asked, rushing through the open door and coming to a stop behind Angel. He held a crossbow in one hand, a stake in the other.

"Yeah." Cordelia croaked in reply, lifting her hand to touch the thick material Doyle was using to staunch her bleeding. "Fine."

"I told her I was hungry." Darla said laughingly, ceasing her struggle. "I couldn't help it."

"That bitch stays as far away from Cordy as possible from now on!" Doyle shouted, throwing an angry glare in Darla's direction. "The only good thing about 'er is the baby inside—the rest of 'er should be swept into a dust pan and tossed out the back door."

As Doyle helped Cordelia up off the floor and easily lifted her into his sturdy, demon arms, Angel shoved Darla toward the bed. "You stay here—I'll get you something to eat." He gritted through his teeth and then turned to Gunn, gesturing toward the crossbow. "I want her guarded at all times—no one other than me gets near her. If she comes too close—don't hesitate."

* * *

Doyle shook out a few pills into the palm of his hand and extended them toward the woman who was tucked snuggly into her side of their bed. "Here. These'll help."

She reached out, opening her own palm and catching the small white capsules he dropped there. "Thanks." Cordelia mumbled, tossing the pills into her mouth and chasing them with a gulp of water from the glass she held in her other hand. Beside her, Clover circled several times across the fluffy white comforter, before plopping down.

"It hurt a lot?" Doyle wondered, gesturing to the large chunk of gauze secured around the side of Cordelia's slender neck.

"Not as much as my pride." She said with a sigh, placing the glass down on the small table at her side. "As much as I hate admitting you were right—I set myself up for this. I was so focused on the baby, I was willing to overlook the evil package it came in." Her eyes flickered to his knowingly. "Guess that's something we have in common, huh?"

A wavering smile hovered over Doyle's lips as he settled himself down on the edge of the bed, carefully adjusting the covers over her before he did so. "Now y'know why I did everything I did."

"Now I know." She repeated.

"And I know this must be hard for ya." He continued solemnly. "To see Darla like that—to be reminded of what happened last year. I feel it, too, yeah? But, we have a chance to try again someday. This whole thing—it's Angel's _only_ chance."

Her hand slid over the covers and found his resting a few inches away; he felt a tiny squeeze of understanding as her fingers wound around his. "I get that now," She replied softly. "You wanted to save an innocent soul; you did what you had to do."

"There are some things I wish I'd done differently." Doyle admitted regretfully.

"We can't go back." She reminded him as the sleep started to creep into her voice. "We can only go forward. And try not to make the same mistakes twice." Her lids dipped low and she blinked a few too many times. "Right?"

"Yeah." He agreed, tenderly squeezing her hand in return. "We can definitely do that."

"Unless Angel's baby destroys the world." She added, stifling a yawn. "Mmmm. Those pills work fast."

"Get some sleep, love." He replied, watching as her eyelids fluttered to a permanent close and her breathing slowed to a restful pace. Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and murmured against her soft skin. "As long as we're both _in_ the world, we'll save it. I promise ya that."


	23. Quickening

**23\. Quickening**

"Oh my goodness! You guys look amazing!" Fred enthused, clapping her hands together as she stood behind the front reception counter of the Hyperion lobby. The smile she wore covered the entire bottom half of her face, and was nothing short of genuine, although the mock-bow she gave was not. "I feel like I'm back in Pylea, your majesties—except without the slavery part."

Cordelia ignored the awkwardness of the statement in favor of a bright smile and a dramatic twirl. "I opted to skip the tiara—thought it would be a little too much with these shoes." She remarked, showing an ample display of leg through the tasteful slit on the side of her floor length midnight blue gown. The shoes did look fabulous.

"Ya still look like a Princess to me, darlin'." Doyle said admiringly from behind her. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his rented tuxedo, which had a bit of a vintage flare. It was a little pricier than the other ones he'd tried on, but the look in Cordelia's eyes when she saw him in it was worth every extra penny.

"Gotta say. Ya'll look _tight_." Gunn commented, from where he was lounging on one of the couches with his feet up. "Almost makes me reconsider my stance on penguin suits."

"What stance is that, Charles?" Fred wondered, leaning over the counter to get a better look at him.

"That I wouldn't be caught dead wearing one." Gunn snorted, as if it was obvious. "Wouldn't be caught _alive_ neither. Or in a coma."

"Oh, I don't think you'd mind if you had _this_ on your arm." Cordelia bragged, gesturing toward her hourglass figure that was very visible beneath the shimmering material of her gown. She linked her arm through Doyle's to illustrate that they were a matching set.

"That come with the tux?" Gunn wisecracked, earning a smirk from Doyle and an eye-roll from Cordelia.

Wesley wandered out of his office with his head buried in a book, as Wesley was wont to do. "It seems I was wrong about the Tro-Clon." He announced without bothering to look up to see who was present. He placed the heavy text down on the counter beside Fred's elbow. His eyes were still firmly glued to the page as he spoke. "It's not one person or event, but a _confluence_ of events. I believe the birth of Angel's child is just one of the many pieces."

This wasn't exactly news to Doyle, but the mention of the prophecy still made him swallow hard. Connor wasn't _just_ a piece—he was an integral piece. Perhaps even the key piece. Doyle could have stopped all this apocalypse mumbo jumbo before it had even started if he'd let Connor's existence be wiped away in the folds of time. But that hadn't been a choice he'd been willing to make. Instead, he'd chosen to fire the starter pistol for the end of days. He'd traded the responsibility of losing one life, for every life on earth. No pressure or anything.

"Maybe we shouldn't go." Cordelia said hesitantly.

Wesley's head finally lifted from his book and his brow wrinkled with confusion as he took in Cordelia and Doyle's dressy attire. "Oh, you have plans."

"You have to go!" Fred cried, her hands flying outward to indicate their fancy dress clothes. "It'll be so romantic. I bet the food will be tasty, too… maybe they'll even let you leave with a doggy bag? You know, for hungry people who aren't going anywhere special tonight."

"The wedding isn't part o' the confluence, Princess." Doyle said with a warm chuckle, his arm slipping around Cordelia's slender waist. "Spending a few hours at a party won't usher in the apocalypse any faster than it's already coming."

"I know…" She hedged, her dark eyes flicking up to his. "There's just so much going on right now."

"Angel's on Darla-duty tonight." Gunn reminded her, still lazily reclining across the couch. "Wes is the only one who can read the prophecy. And we ain't got no other cases. Even if we did, me and Fred are here to do whatever else needs doing."

"Like eating dinner, for instance." Fred said with a hopeful smile. "Was that my stomach or someone else's?"

"You should go and enjoy yourselves." Wesley agreed with a curt nod of his head. "We'll call if anything comes up—emergency only, of course."

"Right." Cordelia said, patting the small purse she clutched under her arm. "Good thing my cell phone actually works."

Doyle sent a grin of thanks in his boss' direction, knowing that Wesley's approval was the clincher in this situation. If Cordelia had things her way, they'd sit around twiddling their fingers, waiting for Darla to go into labor or for the gates of hell to open. Whichever came first.

Hurrying to say their final goodbyes, Doyle ushered his breathtaking girlfriend through the Hyperion's front courtyard and toward a waiting cab before she could change her mind. As he opened one of the doors to assist her into the vehicle, he caught sight of a suspicious figure lingering in the shadows of the courtyard behind him—he couldn't see the person's face, but the scent was unmistakable.

 _Not now_ , Doyle thought to himself. This was not the right time for an impromptu visit. Nor was it the place! Not with Darla—and therefore, Connor—inside.

"Ah… just a sec, love. Think I dropped my wallet on the way out." Doyle fibbed, giving the cabbie a signal to keep the meter running. He scurried back inside the wrought iron gates of the hotel before Cordelia could so much as make a crack about why he would even need his empty wallet.

As soon as he was shielded by the shadows and foliage, he heard a familiar gravelly voice address him. "Looking rather hoity toity there, Doyle—didn't think you went for that kinda thing."

Doyle called back to the shadowy figure. "What the hell are ya doing here?"

"Where's the hospitality?" Penny answered, taking one step out of the near pitch-black, revealing his usual gangster get up. "I'm just keeping up our little arrangement, that's all. How'd that last tip pan out for ya?"

"It was a good one." Doyle admitted with a resigned sigh, hoping to hurry along the exchange. Cordelia was already looking for an excuse to bail out on their big date night, the last thing he needed was her flipping out about him meeting a shady-looking 'source' on hotel property. "So, what now?"

Penny hedged, tilting his head to the side, indicating that he expected to be compensated for his trouble. Doyle grumbled with annoyance, but pulled out his wallet and peeked at the few crumpled bills that were contained inside. He arched a brow in Penny's direction, asking if the measly pay off would be enough.

The expression he got in return told him it wasn't even close and yet Penny began to talk anyway. "There's a new game in town—something big. Real old, too." The shorter demon explained. "This thing's rallying a bunch of Grappler demons as we speak. Plans on making some waves. Seemed like the type of thing you'd wanna know."

It was _exactly_ the type of thing Doyle wanted to know. The kind of thing he wanted to go back inside and share with Wesley, but that would certainly spoil the evening—he figured borrowing Cordelia's cell phone would do just as well. "Anything else?" Doyle asked, before digging the flimsy wad of bills out of his wallet.

"That's all for now." Penny replied with a shrug, waving off the cash offering.

Doyle's brow furrowed. "This is all I've got on me, bud. Ya want more and I'll need some time."

"I don't need your money, Doyle. I got a dozen other guys I can collect from who owe serious coin." Penny acknowledged, reaching up to scratch his stubbly chin. "But there are other things a guy like me needs. Things you _can_ provide."

"What kinda things?" Doyle asked uncertainly, hoping Penny's request would be reasonable—the last thing he wanted was to start racking up debts he had no hope of ever repaying.

Penny shuffled his well-shined shoes, as his eyes darted toward the hotel looming nearby. "Nothing you can't afford—just a guarantee that I'll have protection when the apocalyptic shit hits the fan."

As requests went, this one seemed more than reasonable. "Yeah, alright." Doyle agreed, stuffing the cash back into his wallet and shoving it back into his breast pocket. "I can arrange that."

"And… there's one other thing." Penny said, jutting his chin in the direction where Cordelia sat waiting in the cab. "She got any sisters you could set me up with? Hell, if they're even _half_ as foxy as she is, I'll owe you for life."

Doyle shook his head and turned away from the smaller demon. "Only child."

"A friend of hers, then?" Penny persisted, moving another step forward to follow in Doyle's footsteps.

"Can't ya get your own dates?" Doyle laughed over his shoulder.

"Yeah, sure, I could turn a frog into a Princess anytime I want." Penny retorted. "But an illusion is never as good as the real thing."

"That's a little too much information there, man." Doyle noted, wrinkling up his nose in disgust and waving Penny back a few steps, so Cordelia would accidentally catch a glimpse.

Penny winked as he obligingly receded into the shadows. "Keep that real thing of yours _close_ , Doyle."

* * *

 _"_ _Yes, you're lovely, with your smile so warm, and your cheeks so soft._

 _There is nothing for me but to looooove you, and the way you look tonight."_

Cordelia spun and her magnificent gown swirled around her before coming to a stop and then swooshing again as she stepped back into her dance partner's waiting arms. She grinned at him, admiring how dapper he looked in his classic black tuxedo. It's not that she didn't think Doyle looked attractive on regular days, but she couldn't deny that he cleaned up exceptionally well. In fact, Cordelia had caught more than one female wedding guest admiring her dark-haired accessory along with her dazzling dress; it gave her a bit of that old thrill she hadn't felt in ages—the one where she knew she was the source of other women's envy.

It had been a _really_ long time since she'd felt anything close to that; she'd forgotten what a rush it gave her. Champion or not. Some things never changed. And Cordelia Chase enjoyed the spotlight.

So, as it turned out, Doyle had been right. Coming to the wedding was a good idea. A much needed departure from reality, which for them, was generally destruction and doom. Back at the Hyperion may be more of the same, but tonight, across town in this shimmering ballroom, surrounded by other well-dressed party guests, they could escape into someone else's fairytale for a few hours. And it was just that—the perfect, fairytale wedding. Beautiful gowns twirling to the music, twinkling lights electrifying the room and not a single demon in sight.

Aside from the one Cordelia was currently dancing with, of course.

Across the room she could see Kelly and Ben, the picture-perfect bride and groom. If they were smaller and made of plastic, they'd belong on the top of a cake. Their ceremony had been aesthetically beautiful, and although the vows were generic—nothing Cordelia hadn't heard before—she felt herself inexplicably moved. Perhaps, it wasn't so much the idyllic couple standing in front of the crowd that made her heart swell in her chest, but the man standing at her side, holding her hand.

That same man was currently spinning her around the dance floor, as he'd done for half the night. The other half had been spent enjoying the wedding banquet, which was definitely worth the drive across town. Even the duck was moist and delicious. There was no part of the evening that didn't feel perfect, and Cordelia could barely contain the smile radiating from her lips.

 _"_ _Lovely ... Never, never change, keep that breathless charm…"_ She could hear Doyle singing along with the music, his breath close to her ear as they swayed in time. _"'Cause I loooove you,_ _just the way you look tonight."_

Cordelia was giggling shamelessly as the song ended and the crowd all paused to clap for the live band that had been entertaining them all evening.

"There it is." Doyle said with a laugh, as he finished his clapping and swept her back into his arms. The music picked up again almost immediately, a slightly slower tempo this time. "Gotta say, Princess, I'm relieved."

"Because I'm smiling?" She asked dubiously, keeping one hand on his shoulder and the other in his hand so she could see his face as they conversed. "I do that all the time."

"Not like this." He told her, and she saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes. She took no offense to his words, knowing that he was speaking from a place of love. "Tonight I'm seeing a bit o' the old Cordy—the one who _liked_ getting all dolled up and being social. The one who was never preoccupied by demons and apocalypses dancing in 'er head."

"I'm still in here." Cordelia promised, although she could understand why Doyle would think she had gone away. This little escape from reality, had shown her just how much reality had taken its toll.

Doyle's arms felt so warm and safe around her, but it was the look in his eyes that warmed her from within, and the sincerity that came with it. Right now, those eyes of his were scanning the room, taking in all the glitz and glamour that surrounded them. "So, this was the big dream, huh?" He remarked, noting the multi-tiered caked, which looked like it could feed a small nation, or at the very least, Fred. "Guess it has a certain appeal… sorry ya hadda give it up."

She tilted her head at him, amazed that he could be right about so many things and so very wrong about this particular thing. "I haven't given anything up." She assured him. "I've replaced the old dreams with new ones, that's all."

"Yeah?" He replied, his brows arching upward with curiosity. "Wanna tell me about 'em?"

"Well… they consist of demons, mostly." She replied, removing her hand from his and sliding it around his neck to connect with her other. "There's one in particular I'm pretty fond of—not too tall, kinda spikey. Looks great in a tux."

"I told ya." He said with a wink. His grin grew even wider as he continued to dance her slowly through the crowd. "So, I shouldn't hold my breath for a Princess wedding?" He asked jokingly. "I was really looking forward to that ice sculpture bit."

She played along, fluttering her eyelids in an over-dramatic fashion. "You'll have to let go of the delusions of grandeur, buddy." Her fingers lazily wound through the dark hair at the base of his head as she contemplated her new dream scenario. "Forget the fact that I don't have that many friends these days—I wouldn't wanna do anything that would require inviting my parents. So, I think eloping is probably the way to go. As long as I have a fabulous dress and even more fabulous shoes, the rest of the stuff is just meaningless fluff. Who needs it?"

"Dress and shoes." Doyle said with an amused nod. "You're not forgetting anything else?"

"Oh, right! How could I forget _that_?!" She exclaimed, mockingly hitting herself in the forehead. "If I'm gonna commit to one piece of jewelry for the rest of my life—I have to be madly in love with the ring."

"Uh huh." He said, narrowing his eyes at her with mock-skepticism.

Cordelia continued to tease out the moment, knowing full well what the most important ingredient to her hypothetical wedding day was. "And, I guess there's one more thing…" She finally declared, leaning in to speak very close to his lips. "The groom. He's kinda important, too."

He kissed her than, as she anticipated. She also felt him chuckling behind the kiss, which made it even better. They continued to laugh and kiss and swirl through the other dancing couples, wrapped up in the bubble of joy they'd created for themselves.

It was all fun and games—until a visual freight train headed straight for Cordelia's cerebral cortex.

"No." She grunted, gripping Doyle tightly and stumbling back a few steps, closer to the edge of the dance floor. Cordelia desperately hoped he would figure out what was happening _before_ she screamed her head off in the middle of the crowded reception hall.

 _Flash!_ The pain took control before she could brace herself any further. She did her best to fight the screams that wanted to push through her lips, but she couldn't be sure she was successful. Her senses were drowned by another woman's cries—Darla's cries! And blood and violence and weapons. There were vampires surrounding them. They wanted Darla; they wanted the baby that was still inside her.

Wanted to destroy anyone who stood in their way.

They were all in grave danger! Every single one of them! _Flash!_

As reality danced back into focus, Cordelia struggled to catch her breath and regain her bearings. She could see immediately that she was no longer inside the ballroom. Doyle's arms were underneath her, and she was being held close to his chest as he moved rapidly. A moment later, he was lowering her to the carpeted floor of the hallway.

"You're okay. I gotcha." He murmured, brushing some of her hair from her face, and smoothing down her dress over her semi-exposed legs.

Exhaling deeply, Cordelia lifted her hands to her cheeks, which were warm to the touch and undoubtedly flushed with color. "Oh God." She uttered as the gravity of the situation settled over her. "There were so many of them."

"I don't think too many folks noticed, love." Doyle promised her, massing her neck with one of his hands. "The music's loud and I got ya outta there pretty quick."

"We've got bigger problems than an embarrassing scene." She clarified, rubbing vigorously at her throbbing temples. "Vampires. Lots and lots of vampires." She stuttered over the words as she flashed back to the vivid images from her vision. "And demons. And regular people, too—they're all after Darla and the baby."

Doyle blew out a breath of frustration as he started to pick himself up off the floor and then reached back down to help Cordelia to her feet as well. "Any chance they're looking to worship rather than destroy?"

"Fifty-fifty split." Cordelia answered worriedly, getting to her shaky feet and immediately falling into a hurried step beside her boyfriend. "But, they all have one thing in common—they're willing to kill the competition."

"I was afraid you'd say that." He responded, keeping an arm around her as they rushed down the long hallway toward the exit.

"Oh, and there's something else." She added, fishing her cell phone out of her small purse and thrusting it into Doyle's hand. "I'm pretty sure Darla's water just broke."

Doyle's eyes went skyward as he tapped re-dial on the phone and held the speaker up to his ear, waiting for Wesley to answer. Meanwhile, they pushed open the circular doors that led to the front pickup area of the Beverly Hills Hotel. A row of cabs already waited, and the concierge politely opened the door to the first one in line, allowing Cordelia and Doyle to leap into the backseat without a moment to lose.

"The Hyperion Hotel. As fast as you can get us there." Cordelia snapped at the driver. "We'll pay you double if you speed."

Doyle listened impatiently to the numerous rings from the other end of Cordelia's cellphone; finally it was Angel's voice that crackled to life through the other end of the line. "Doyle? Is that you?"

"Angel, man! Thank goodness!" Doyle spoke frantically into the receiver. "Listen. Ya gotta get Darla away from the hotel right away—word's gotten out. They're coming for her and the baby!"

"I think it's a little late for that." Angel replied, only the slightest warble of panic detected in the vampire's voice.

"Angelus?" An unknown voice in the background was audible to Doyle's ear. Gruff and male. "I've been looking for you."

"Holtz." Angel addressed the other man, his voice getting farther away from the receiver as he undoubtedly lowered it away from his mouth. "My God."

Then the line went dead.


	24. Lullaby, Part 1

**24\. Lullaby, Part I**

Doyle jumped out of the cab and held out a hand to pull Cordelia out behind him. As soon as both sets of dress shoes hit the sidewalk, they were running toward the front gate of the Hyperion. The piercing sound of a woman's scream stopped them in their tracks.

"That came from the alley." Doyle noted, instinctively redirecting them toward the source of the distress.

THUD! BLAM! As they got closer, they could hear the sounds of struggle.

"Charles!" Fred's frightened voice rang out even before they rounded the corner and saw their friends, pinned down by a group of Grappler demons. Angel's car was parked in the middle of the alley and the shrieking woman appeared to be sitting in its backseat—Darla, in the throes of labor.

Gunn was using his fists mostly, while Wesley wielded a tire iron and Fred clutched a baseball bat between her whitened knuckles. They didn't seem to have any other means of defending themselves, and although they were currently holding their own, they weren't likely to be able to keep it up for long.

"We need weapons." Cordelia panted from behind Doyle, taking in the precarious scene for herself.

Doyle morphed into his spikes, and nodded Cordelia back toward the front of the hotel. "I got my weapon right here, love. Go inside and grab yourself a sword."

KA-BOOM!

The cacophonous sound came from _inside_ the hotel. It sounded suspiciously as if something had… exploded.

"On second thought…" Doyle amended, having no idea what could have caused that kind of blast. He pointed toward the heels adorning Cordelia's feet. "Those things look pretty sharp, yeah?"

Cordelia pouted down at her impeccable footwear, even as she obediently slipped the heels off her feet, brandishing them as weapons. "I knew I'd regret paying full price for these." She grumbled, preparing to follow Doyle into the fray.

"Sorry, darlin'." He replied, with a sympathetic grin, before making a beeline toward the action.

Doyle knew that Grappler demons were strong and well equipped for hand to hand combat, but he also knew they weren't particularly bright. Hence, his ability to rush up behind one of them, tap it on the right shoulder, and then dart to the left, causing the tusked beast to spin away from him in confusion and then turn back to meet a face full of smiling Brachen spikes. Once the creature was dazed, Cordelia took over—perfecting the art of heel to skull combat.

One down, at least a half dozen to go.

Less than that, since Gunn managed to put down another Grappler before it could attack Fred.

Doyle ducked just in time to miss a meaty grey fist that had attempted to collide with his skull. He pogoed back up and used his own fist to clobber the creature—although, all he'd managed to do was scrape his demon knuckles across the other demon's abrasive tusks. It was Wesley who came to Doyle's aid, lobbing the beast in the head with the tire iron before the creature had a chance to reciprocate by turning out Doyle's lights. The Grappler went stumbling backward.

And then there was the real game changer.

Having climbed into the front seat of Angel's car, Darla turned on the ignition and plowed straight into two of the demons that had been headed straight for her. Once they were officially road kill, she threw the car into reverse and took out two more demons behind her, narrowly missing Gunn and Fred in the process. Finally, she put the car back into drive and stomped her foot down on the pedal, sending the car speeding forward once again. This time she didn't stop.

The alley was left in a blanket of gloomy silence. Demon corpses littered the ground around the weary group of heroes, who watched as Darla's taillights disappeared from sight.

The back door of the hotel burst open, and Angel arrived, looking as if he'd had a front seat to whatever explosion had occurred inside. His face was covered with soot, his hair and clothes were singed and he brought with him the distinct smell of… barbecue. He slowly craned his neck, to stare down the alley at the emptiness the others were so diligently focused on. "What are we looking at?"

"A dress I'm never gonna be able to return and a pair of expensive heels _ruined_." Cordelia complained, wrinkling her nose at the tattered remains of her shoes. She dropped them onto the ground beside one of the mangled Grappler carcasses. "Also, your girlfriend just stole your car."

"At least she ran over all the demons before she left." Fred said helpfully. "That was a nice thing to do—sort of. I mean, she could've just let 'em kill us."

"Perhaps she does have a maternal bone somewhere in her evil body." Wesley suggested doubtfully, flinging some flecks of demon goop from his glasses.

"Or the Grapplers just pissed her off more than we did." Gunn finished.

Doyle pointed to the soot that darkened Angel's cheeks. "What happened there? Didn't think Grapplers were smart enough for anything other than fisticuffs."

"Did you get the scrolls?" Wesley jumped in frantically, placing his still smudgy glasses back on his face and frowning at the image of an empty-handed Angel standing before him.

"No." Angel answered Wesley plainly and then turned to address Doyle's question with slightly more detail. "Holtz happened. He was here—not a day older than when I saw him two hundred years ago."

"Holtz—he was that vampire hunter you told us about, right?" Gunn remarked. "Thought you said he was human."

"He was." Angel answered. "Still is, as far as I can tell—I don't know what kind of dark magic brought him here, but it had to be something incredibly powerful."

"He's after the boy." Doyle guessed. A highly educated guess, considering the current circumstances and the knowledge he had of what was to come. It was all about Connor, wasn't it? Every single thing.

"No, I don't think so." Angel disagreed. "He didn't seem to know about the baby—he was just looking for revenge."

"Sure, pile on the crappy things all at once." Cordelia huffed. "Like we don't already have enough to deal with, with this Tro-Clon confluence stuff."

"Um… generally speaking, that is what a confluence is." Wesley explained cautiously. "A series of unconnected persons and events combining in a sort of chain reaction. To what end, we can't know."

"We know." Doyle muttered, suddenly getting the distinct impression that Holtz was the real danger. No matter how many others came for Angel's child, there was something about this one human man, traveling through the centuries to seek revenge, that made Doyle's blood run cold. Could this be the true destroyer of the world? One man who had been robbed of everything, and had nothing left but hate.

The world could crumble for less, Doyle supposed. Hate was actually one of the most powerful forces there was. Second only to love.

"Well, not to put a heap of rotten cherries on top of our confluence-sundae, but according to my latest hallucinogenic migraine, there are _a lot_ of others who'll be coming for the baby." Cordelia announced to the group. "These dummies were just the beginning."

No one was surprised by this news, least of all Doyle. Of course, the demon community—and human alike—would want to possess the miracle child of two vampires. Something that unnatural _had_ to be powerful.

"I'll find Darla." Angel spoke up, appearing confident that he'd be able to accomplish what seemed to be the most difficult task. "But once I do, she needs a safe place to have the baby."

"I've got that part covered, man." Doyle promised, reassuringly slapping his friend on the shoulder. "I know just the place."

* * *

"No. Absolutely not. And a resounding _uh uh_."

Lorne shook his head adamantly, turning his back on Doyle and walking away, to direct a woman carrying a large jug. "Gorsh entrails go behind the bar, next to the Maraschinos."

All around the two demons was a bustling atmosphere of workers and Muses attempting to remake the interior of Caritas into its former, pre-destruction era, glory. An elaborate metal box of wires sat close to the front door, a strange ethereal glow emanating from the device, signaling that it was not strictly electronic, but also mystical.

"C'mon, man. It's important!" Doyle pleaded, following Lorne through the maze of people, clasping his hands together in a showy prayer. "I'm asking as a friend."

"Y'know, little buddy, it's funny you should bring up that friendship of ours—because the way I see it, it's already cost me more than it's worth." Lorne grumped, gesturing to the club surrounding them. "Can't you see I'm working my tush off to get this place ready for the grand reopening tomorrow night? And you want me to drop everything and let Angel's prophesied miracle-child be born in the middle of the newly polished floor?"

"Well... yeah. Or on a table maybe." Doyle replied with a sheepish grin. "In return, we could help with the redecorating. I'd probably be better at hanging pictures than delivering a baby anyway."

Lorne huffed out a long dramatic breath, as if he was being _terribly_ inconvenienced by Doyle's request, but underneath the big show, Doyle could see the other demon wavering. "The sanctuary spell isn't exactly complete, y'know." Lorne pointed out, without expressly saying yes or no. "Demon violence is one thing, but I'm wiring this place up to make sure _human_ violence is impossible as well… Or, I _was_ until I had to fire my magic-electrician. So, you see, it's not exactly safe here yet."

"We had one o' those office alarms installed a few years ago." Doyle recalled, moving toward the glowing electrical box and leafing through the instructional booklet nearby. "This can't be much different, yeah?"

Lorne's brows furrowed in a skeptical manner, but then he waved his hand around as if it was no question at all. "If you can splice that thing together without crispy-frying yourself, then you can deliver all the babies you want here."

"Ah… thanks. Just the one for now." Doyle said, squinting his eyes at the convoluted instructions typed in small print. When advertising his skills, he'd failed to mention how little help he'd been with the old office alarm system—or how ineffectual that system had turned out to be.

The rest of the gang trooped into the room through the disengaged metal detectors. Cordelia led the pack with Wesley, Gunn and Fred close on her heels. The four of them had been huddled at the bottom of the steps, waiting for Doyle to work his powers of persuasion on the club's owner.

"Oh, thank goodness." Cordelia groaned, trudging toward an empty barstool. "My feet are killing me—not to mention the dump truck running over my head that I never had a chance to fully recover from. You mind if I skip the manual labor?"

She was still wearing her wedding attire, with Doyle's tux jacket thrown over her shoulders to combat the brisk night air. Doyle himself, had happily traded the fancier threads for his trusty beat up brown leather jacket, which he'd thrown over his white dress shirt and bow-tie. It clashed less than one would expect, but unfortunately, carried with it the potent smell of barbecued demon.

The jacket hadn't been the only reason Doyle risked life and limb to dodge through the smoke-filled terrain of the Hyperion. He'd graciously volunteered to go back for Wesley's precious scroll, never intending to actually retrieve the scroll. Now that he'd all but confirmed its uselessness in terms of Connor's birth—Doyle had planned to hide the dreaded thing away and claim it was missing.

As it turned out, he only had to do the last part, since it really _was_ missing. Maybe that was for the best. Or maybe, now that it was likely in the hands of their enemy, everything was much, much worse.

Only time would tell.

Doyle lifted his head from the electrician's manual, with his brows deeply furrowed. He swiftly shoved the instructions into Wesley's hand, leaving the Englishman frowning in his wake, as he crossed the length of the club toward his weary-looking girlfriend. "Sorry, Princess. I know it's been a long night. I'm sure Lorne wouldn't mind if ya wanted to lie down in back."

She waved him off. "I don't recall _you_ hijacking my brain or forcing Darla into labor."

"No, but I did twist your arm about the whole wedding bit." Doyle said apologetically. "Turned out you were right—it was a bad idea."

"Actually, it was a _great_ idea." Cordelia corrected him, a reassuring smile sliding over her lips. "I'm really glad we went."

"Yeah?" Doyle asked with surprise. "Even though it ended with us racing 'cross town in a cab, fighting a buncha demons and waiting here for Angel's miracle child to be born?"

"Well… I could've done without the after-party." She confessed. "But the part where I was wined, dined and envied by every other woman on that dance floor? I really enjoyed that. It made me feel normal for the first time in a long time… and I think I finally understand why it was such a big deal to you that we go."

"Just wanted to see that smile, love." He said honestly.

Reaching out, she took his hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. "No matter how exhausted I am, or how cranky the visions make me, or how many dates I cancel as a result—underneath it all… I'm still me, you're still you, and we're still _us_. That's never gonna change, Doyle."

"Promise?" He whispered.

"Promise." She replied.


	25. Lullaby, Part 2

**25\. Lullaby, Part II**

"Ahhhhhh!" Darla screamed in agony for what must have been the hundredth time.

She was lying on Lorne's bed in the back room of Caritas, her distress audible to the group that was gathered both inside and out. Wesley stood by her bedside with Fred at his elbow, jointly trying to coach Darla through her labor; it was becoming more and more apparent that it was a fruitless effort. The vampire's labor hadn't merely slowed, it had ceased entirely, and if Wesley didn't already know the child was in jeopardy, the worrisome lines etched across Fred's otherwise smooth brow confirmed it. She removed the stethoscope from Darla's belly and gave Wesley a slight shake of her head.

"It's so faint." She mumbled, referring to the baby's heartbeat. She probably thought her voice was low enough that no one else could hear—however, she hadn't taken into account the multiple sets of preternatural ears that accompanied them, one of which belonged to the expectant mother herself.

"He's dying." Darla choked out; for the first time, she actually looked troubled by the thought of losing her child. Not to mention her use of a proper pronoun. Wesley supposed she had some kind of sixth sense about the baby's gender, since they certainly had no way of confirming its sex at this point. "Isn't he?"

"No." Angel insisted, pausing in the pacing he'd been doing at the foot of her bed. His hands wrapped around the baseboard, clutching so tight around the wooden posts, that Wesley worried they may shatter into splinters.

"You were a much better liar when you didn't have a soul." Darla retorted. "I can feel the life slipping away from me."

Cordelia had been sitting in a chair in the corner, but she stood abruptly, elbowed her way past Doyle, who had been silently observing from the doorway. She hurried out into the hallway, muttering as she passed. "I can't watch this."

"Wes, tell me you can do something." Angel demanded, his eyes pleading in Wesley's direction.

Put on the spot, Wesley felt the color drain from his face. He'd been dreading having to say the bad news out loud. He tried to keep his voice calm. "Angel… I think you need to prepare yourself for the worst."

"A C-section." Angel suggested, turning his gaze from Wesley to Fred, hoping his appeal to her would be more fruitful; she sadly shook her head. In any other case—any natural case—it would have been a sensible idea. But it wasn't mere flesh that protected the baby in Darla's womb. It was magic. And it was impenetrable.

" _Doyle._ " Angel said sharply, finally turning to his best friend, who hadn't spoken for so long that Wesley nearly forgot he was even in the room. "What's going on here? How do we get my son out?!"

Wesley watched Doyle's posture change, the half-demon stood up a little straighter, his mouth opening and then closing again without providing an answer. His eyes darted nervously around the room before he locked them apologetically onto Angel's demanding gaze.

Fred leaned closer to Wesley's ear, "Does Doyle have some kind of OB experience I don't know about?"

For someone like Fred, who hadn't been around for years, Wesley could understand why it would seem curious that Angel would turn to Doyle for answers to a medical conundrum that neither Wesley nor Fred, the resident brains, could solve. But Wesley _had_ been around for years, and therefore, was quite used to Angel looking to Doyle for guidance, whether the other man was qualified to counsel on the matter or not.

"I dunno, man. Not this time." Doyle answered regretfully.

 _Not this time_. That was the phrase that struck a chord with Wesley. It implied what Wesley always suspected—that Doyle generally _did_ have answers; and in this case, he felt like he _should_. Even though he was no longer the messenger. Even though the Powers That Be now spoke through another.

Doyle's next words were laced with regret and something else. Something like… conviction. "I know this boy _can_ be born. _Alive_. But, I've no idea how to make it happen."

"Go! Go! Run!" The sound of Lorne's panicked shouts broke the tension in the room; all eyes flew to the open doorway, through which Cordelia and Gunn came barreling, followed closely by the club's owner, his eyes wide with fear. "Get DOOOOOOOWWWWWNNNNN!"

KAAAAAA-BOOOOOOOM!

Doyle was flung backward, along with Lorne—the two demons having been closest to the open doorway. Thankfully, all the more human individuals had been deeper inside the bedroom and had gotten some cover prior to the huge explosion that rocked the building.

There was coughing and sputtering as the room began to fill with smoke and ash. Wesley had thrown his arms around Fred, instinctively protecting her from the blast. He smiled awkwardly as she raised her head and they nodded to each other, confirming that they were both unharmed. Releasing her from his grip, Wesley stood from his crouching position behind the bed, and took a headcount.

Angel was already up and moving; he rushed to Darla's side, checking her over—naturally, she was just fine—immortality had a way of doing that. Across the room, Wesley could see Gunn was helping Cordelia up off the floor, having used his body to shield her from the blast. A few feet closer to the door, Doyle slowly sat up, rubbing at the back of his head. Lorne sat across from him, also trying to shake away the post-blast cobwebs.

"What's going on?" Angel demanded gruffly, searching for answers amongst his baffled compatriots, his eyes finally settling on Lorne. "I thought you had double protection sanctorium spells?"

"I do!" Lorne cried with frustration. "But, there's still a teeny tiny loophole."

"Apparently, you can be outside and shove stuff in." Gunn supplied, sidestepping a fiery beam that suddenly crashed down from above; he was careful to keep Cordelia behind him.

"As loopholes go, not so teeny tiny!" Cordelia shrieked, eying the expanding fire around them.

"We have to get outta here!" Wesley heard himself shouting the obvious, although he could see no means of escape from the windowless room aside from the door that led to an even larger inferno.

"Move the bed!" Lorne called back, directing Doyle and Gunn toward the piece of furniture in question. "There's an old loading dock that leads to the alley—we just have to crack through the wall."

The bed was quickly shoved aside and a solid slab of wall was the only thing remaining between them and freedom. Gunn grabbed a Buddha statue from Lorne's dresser and began slamming its big bald head into the wallpaper. Cordelia followed suit, lifting a gaudy brass Rhino and tossing it to Doyle, who morphed into his spikes and got to work beside the other man. Wesley searched for another item to help with the demolition, but found nothing. He settled for circling toward the other side of the room, where Angel was clutching Darla. He took over Angel's position, nodding for the vampire to use his super-strength where it was needed most.

Angel didn't need to be told twice—he shoved the other two men aside and kicked and punched his way through the wall in a matter of seconds. It wasn't just an average feat of vampire strength; this was a man possessed.

A _father_ possessed with saving his unborn child.

The wall broke away, with shards of wood flying. The sound of pouring rain could be heard amidst the crackling of fire around them. Seeing that the hole had grown large enough for escape, Doyle reached for Cordelia and ushered her toward the newly-made exit. As she climbed through the opening, Doyle then held out a hand for Fred, making sure she was next. Lorne followed through the opening as Wesley and Angel switched places, Darla once again held in the arms of her former lover.

They all filed into the back alley which was lit with a row of Chinese lanterns. The rain was coming down in sheets, but after the smoke-filled deathtrap of Lorne's bedroom, it was a cleansing breath of fresh air.

Smoke billowed out behind them, and the glow of fire flickered through the hole in the wall.

Turning back to the makeshift exit, Wesley watched as Angel half-carried Darla. She plopped down on the wet pavement, holding her belly. "Go! Just leave me. It doesn't matter anyway."

"That's not gonna happen." Angel promised, pulling out his car keys and tossing them to Wesley. "Go get my car. It's out front."

Although Wesley was accustomed to giving orders rather than taking them these days, there was no time for proper protocol or second-guessing a good plan. He simply nodded and took off in the direction of the car, knowing that the faster he could supply their getaway, the safer they all would be.

Doyle had been holding Cordelia close to his body, insulating her against the cold, streaming rain. She gave him a pointed look and a subtle nod to Angel who was trying to attend to the immovable Darla. Doyle took the hint, stepping away from Cordelia and crouching down to assist Angel.

"All of you! Go now." Angel instructed, worriedly looking back over his shoulder. He could probably sense that Holtz was close by, closing in on them.

Lorne had gathered a few sheets of cardboard from the ground and used them to shield himself and Fred from the rain—the two of them scuttled off behind Wesley. Gunn looked torn, but finally took off with the others as well.

Doyle was still wearing his spikes, and if Holtz did appear, he was the last remaining weapon Angel had at his disposal. "They'll come back for us." He stated more confidently than he felt; then he turned his eyes on his girlfriend, who still lingered. His eyes directed her down the alley. "Cordy, please."

Risking himself for Angel and the child was one thing, but no one else had to get caught in these dangerous crosshairs. Cordelia must've been able to read the desperation in his eyes, which is why she finally relented and turned to race after the others, her already-ruined heels sloshing through the puddles as she disappeared into the rainy darkness, Doyle's soaked tuxedo jacket doing little to shield her from the elements.

"You're gonna be okay." Angel said to Darla. She lay soaking on the pavement, between Angel and Doyle, her face a mask of distress. The raindrops rolled down her cheeks as if they were tears.

"No. No, I don't think so." She moaned. "Once he's gone, I won't be okay. I won't be okay at all. I don't know what I'll be." She was referring to the baby's soul, which had touched her from within and given her the ability to _care_. Without that, she'd be what she'd always been. Nothing more than a killer. "Angel... Our baby is gonna die right here in this alley. You died in an alley, remember?"

"I remember." Angel replied, keeping his eyes focused on her as if Doyle wasn't even present.

"We did so many terrible things together. So much destruction, so much pain." She reminisced, and Doyle couldn't be sure, but he thought there may have been at least one real tear mixed in with all the rain drops. "We can't make up for any of it. You know that, don't you?"

A beat of silence went by as Angel absorbed her words, and then he answered. "Yeah."

"This child, Angel—it's the one good thing we ever did together." She said, her voice starting to fill with acceptance as Angel took her hand in his own, raised it to his lips and kissed it softly. "The _only_ good thing."

As Angel buried his face in his hands, still holding Darla's in his own, Doyle could see his friend take a heaving breath. Angel was feeling a grief that Doyle knew firsthand—one he'd felt for himself. One he didn't wish for any man, least of all his best friend. But, he also saw something else—the resolve in Darla's eyes.

Doyle knew what she was going to do even before she reached out to grasp a nearby shard of wood. "You make sure to tell him that." She requested, before plunging the wood through her chest and turning her body to dust.

"Wahhhhhhh!"

A naked infant lay writhing on the ground where Darla had been only seconds prior. He kicked his tiny legs and screamed to the heavens as the rain washed the remains of his mother from his tiny body.

It had all happened so fast—neither Angel nor Doyle had really had time to process what had happened. Therefore, it seemed like the two of them knelt there for a small eternity, gaping at the baby, frozen in an awed silence. For Angel, there was the shock of Darla's loss, tangled around the joy of becoming a father. For Doyle, there was pure astonishment that he was finally laying eyes on the miracle child whom he'd seen in his vision so long ago. This baby, for which he had sacrificed so much. It seemed fitting that Darla would make the ultimate sacrifice to bring him into this world.

Connor continued to wail and squirm, and only then did it occur to Doyle that leaving a screaming newborn in a puddle of rainwater, probably wasn't the best idea. He quickly shrugged out of his brown leather jacket, his white tuxedo shirt becoming nearly translucent as it immediately became soaked straight through. "You should pick up your son, Angel." He instructed gently, as he held out the jacket in offering.

Reaching down slowly, Angel slid his hands beneath the child and raised him upward, allowing Doyle to wrap the folds of brown leather protectively around the tiny body, tucking it in at the edges. Seeing Connor nestled within the cocoon of beat up leather, Doyle shook his head in wonder. "You're a dad."

Angel's eyes were fixed on his son's face as he held the infant close and carefully stood up. Doyle followed suit, standing beside his best friend and watching the hesitant smile that flickered over his lips.

Somehow, in that single moment, Doyle knew everything that came before had been completely worth it.

As would whatever that came next.

… which as it so happened, was Holtz.

The vampire hunter stepped through the battered hole in the wall, training a crossbow directly on Angel and the baby. Doyle was standing there in his spikes, prepared to leap in the way, should an arrow leave the bow. The acts of sacrifice on Connor's behalf may never be done, and if Doyle's final stand was in this alley, along with Darla's, then so be it.

He was anticipating the pain and the probable death that would follow, what he hadn't expected was for Holtz to lower his weapon. The man's gaze was still steely, hatred still visible in his vengeful eyes, but he didn't take the easy shot. He appeared to be letting them go.

The screech of tires behind them, redirected Doyle's attention to Angel's car, which had just pulled up to the mouth of the alley—through the rain, Doyle saw a couple stray Grappler demons lumbering about, but they weren't in attack mode. They were waiting for a signal—one that wasn't coming.

Doyle suspected this wasn't an act of mercy—in fact, he was certain this was only the beginning of a much more brutal attack. But, whatever Holtz's motives for not firing on them, they had only one play.

Placing a hand on Angel's shoulder, Doyle silently urged him toward the getaway vehicle. That was all it took—Angel turned his back on Holtz's steadfast gaze and calmly walked through the alley, past the Grapplers and got into the car with Doyle jumping in behind him.

Wesley hit the gas and they drove off into the rainy night. Four humans, two and a half demons and one newly born miracle.

* * *

 **A/N - Truthfully, the only reason I edited out Lorne firing his electrician was because it was boring and unnecessary, not because I wanted to mislead you into thinking the club wouldn't explode. So, maybe the guy lingered out in the parking lot, saw Doyle and the gang arrive and snitched anyway? hehe. We'll go with that.**

 **In terms of wanting to compare this story to the events of the original... I wouldn't worry *too* much about that. If I'm doing this right you should be able to enjoy this story whether or not you watched season 3 (or if you watched and forget most of it). Hopefully it's just same enough and just different enough to hit that sweet spot. ;) Thanks as always for reading!**


	26. Dad

**26\. Dad**

The storm continued to rage outside as the Angel Investigations team trudged exhaustedly back into the Hyperion's lobby. All of them were soaking wet, save the child, whom was still bundled in Doyle's jacket and held protectively against Angel's chest. Fred and Gunn, who were loaded down with bags of baby supplies, unloaded the items on the countertop, and then turned to eye the wreckage left behind by the earlier events.

Cordelia stopped a few steps inside the doorway, wrinkling her nose at the mess. "Can we sue Wolfram & Hart for damages?" She asked incredulously. "Look at this place."

"Reckon they had some help from Holtz." Doyle answered. "At least they cleaned up a bit."

"What part of this is clean?" Cordelia was aghast. "I mean, that blood is never coming out of the tiles. I vote we just move."

"Ah… I meant, the bodies." Doyle clarified, his hand resting on the small of Cordelia's back, which was still covered by his tuxedo jacket. "Last time I popped in, there were a lot o' them."

"Oh." Cordelia answered a bit more sullenly.

Wesley had made a beeline to the front counter, and then darted into his office, searching madly for the precious scrolls and papers he'd been forced to abandon during their evacuation from the premises. The others could hear things being tossed about as he frantically searched for something in particular.

The sound of the front doors whooshing open behind them, caused all parties to whirl around in defensive positions. Doyle had long since abandoned his spikes, but felt them reflexively pop back into place as he sensed a new demon presence among them—hidden behind a large black umbrella. Gunn had instinctively raised a crossbow toward the uninvited visitor, while Angel had swung the baby away, protecting him like a lion would protect its cub.

"Hey, is that anyway to welcome a houseguest?" Lorne commented, lowering the umbrella and shaking the droplets of rain onto the tile floor.

"Houseguest?" Gunn questioned, eying the lanky demon in their doorway, who was also in possession of a suitcase. Where he'd procured this suitcase was anyone's guess, seeing how his club had been burnt to a crisp.

"Doyle invited me." Lorne said, closing the umbrella and sticking it in one of the empty pots by the front door. "And seeing how my only other offer came from a marginally attractive Mulix demon, I decided to give this a try."

"We destroyed the guy's club— _twice_." Doyle reminded the others, losing the spikes in favor of his human face. "It's not like we don't have room."

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like." Angel agreed distractedly, without looking up from his son's face.

Wesley reappeared from the depths of his office, in a tizzy. "They're gone!" He shouted, slapping his palm against the empty reception counter in frustration. "Not just the scroll itself, but all my notes on the translation. All of it's been stolen."

Doyle tried his best to look sympathetic to Wesley's plight, but he was actually very much relieved. When he'd discovered the scroll was missing, he hadn't considered any of the additional notes Wesley might have had lying around. Knowing there was nothing left of the Nyazian prophecy for Wesley to investigate made Doyle rest easier. One less thing to worry about—the potential threat from their inner circle was nullified; he could simply focus on the threats from outside, of which there were many.

"Wes, would you mind lowering your voice?" Angel objected, lightly bouncing the baby in his arms. "You're gonna upset him."

"Sorry." Wesley replied, lowering his voice, and his eyes, reticently.

By now, Lorne had removed his long trench coat, tossing it over one of the cages that had been left behind by Wolfram & Hart. The folds of wet fabric deftly covered the label, which had said "baby." He then made a beeline for Angel and the baby, holding out his arms with enthusiasm. "Alright, hand over the little nipper. Let Uncle Lorne have a gander." Angel turned away, curling tighter around the infant. "Oh, come on, I'm sure everyone else's already had their turn."

"Still waiting, actually." Cordelia sniffed, shuffling further into the lobby and removing Doyle's soaked garment from her body—she tossed that item on the second cage, labeled "mother." "As if I'm any dirtier than that gross old jacket of Doyle's."

"Hey…" Doyle sulked. "That jacket's my signature look!"

"Well, your signature look has _holes_." She pointed out unapologetically. "And unless Angel puts an actual diaper on the baby, it'll smell a whole lot worse than it already does."

Doyle's plowed together with concern; he moved toward his best friend and the baby, gesturing to the package of diapers that had been dumped on the countertop along with the bags of bottles and formula. "Ah… she has a point there, man." He said anxiously, his hands fumbling for one of the tiny plastic diapers. "I could show ya how—y'know, I used to help out with my baby cousins back in Dublin. Sure it's like riding a bike."

Holding up the tiny folded diaper, he pointed toward the sticky tabs on the side. Without missing a beat, Angel swiped the item out of Doyle's hand and stomped away. "I can figure it out." He grunted, as he continued toward Wesley's office and disappeared over the threshold.

Wesley's eyes went wide as he registered what was going to happen next. "Um… on my desk?" He asked fretfully, scrambling after Angel and the baby to observe the diaper-changing proceedings.

"AHHHHH!"

Doyle jumped at the unexpected sound. He twisted around to see that the scream had emanated from Fred. She stood frozen, her eyes wide with fear and her index finger directed toward the rear courtyard.

"Bogie at the backdoor!" Gunn shouted in warning, causing Doyle to call on his spikes and rush forward, searching for the unseen attacker. A moment later, a demon came catapulting through the back door, roaring its head off—and then its head actually _came_ _off_. Doyle wasn't sure where Gunn had gotten the cleaver he'd thrown at the beast, but he was awfully glad it was handy. He was doubly glad that Gunn had such an impressive throwing arm, for that matter.

"Nice throw." Doyle complimented the other man, as he stood between Fred and Gunn, staring down at the demon carcass.

Cordelia had been halfway up the staircase, but she leaned over the banister to see what had caused the commotion. "Like I said, there are _lots_ of things coming for that baby." She reminded them, tapping the side of her head emphatically.

* * *

From the back room, they could all hear the baby's shrieking cries. It was hard to imagine that something so small could cause so much trouble, but Doyle knew this was only the beginning. The tip of an apocalyptic iceberg. In what was becoming a rather nerve-wracking habit, he had to wonder if he had any hope of controlling Connor's destiny.

The stakes were higher than ever, and all it would take was one mistake…

"What, what, what? What is it? You can't be wet again. I just changed you." Angel told the fussing baby in his arms. "Ah-hmm, are you hungry? I got a bottle all ready for you."

From several feet away, Cordelia rolled her eyes for the billionth time. She'd given up trying to help, having been shot down at every attempt. Even Gunn had offered his services, but Angel was unwilling to give up the child to anyone in the room, no matter how unhappy the baby seemed to be in his own arms.

Lolling her head to the side, Cordelia rested against Doyle's shoulder—he was seated next to her on the sofa. Both of them had changed out of their damp wedding attire and into some spare clothes. Although Doyle hadn't actually lived in Room 505 for quite a while, it still held some of his belongings. Not that Doyle owned very much, having given just about all his old possessions to the East Hills Teen Center, but there were still a couple boxes of odds and ends that he was unwilling to trash, give away or stuff into Cordelia's already-cramped apartment. And thankfully, a few pairs of sweats were included with the non-clothes items, which is what they each donned at the moment.

Doyle leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, an effective way of communicating his love and support without interrupting their boss, who was pacing the floor in front of them, listing off possible threats to Angel's baby, while Fred dutifully scribbled the items on a white board. Gunn sat on the other end of the sofa with his feet up on the table in front of them. "Frank." He added, pointing to the board. "Ya'll should definitely add him."

"Yeah. Good call." Doyle agreed, lifting his own legs to rest on the table beside Gunn's.

"Frank?" Wesley asked skeptically, even as Fred's marker swiftly added the name to the board.

"Local mobster, specializes in kidnapping." Gunn supplied the additional info.

"I see." Wesley responded with a nod of his head, allowing Frank's name to stay on the board, beneath such other more familiar players as Wolfram & Hart, Holtz and The Scourge… the last one was a particularly unwelcome sight for Cordelia. Neither she, nor Doyle, would ever forget what had happened the last time they'd faced those demon fanatics—or what they'd almost lost on that fateful night.

"I think that's all we can guess at for now." Wesley decided, looking over their rather lengthy list of threats, knowing that there were probably far more than could fit on a single board.

"Fred, why don't you begin tracing those baby cult websites?" Angel called, pacing the perimeter of the group, while still bouncing the crying baby in his arms. "And Gunn—we're gonna need some serious firepower. This is a war we're dealing with, swords and crossbows won't cut it."

"I know some guys who can hook us up." Gunn answered, pushing himself off the couch and heading toward the back door. A bright flash of blue filled the room, halting him in his tracks. "Whoa. Everyone else see that?"

"See what?" Wesley replied, blinking rapidly. "I can't see a bloody thing."

Before everyone could start to panic, Lorne appeared at the top of staircase. "There you have it—one mystical dome of protection, compliments of the Furies. Way safer than the sanctuary spell I had at Caritas." He declared, sashaying down the steps and toward the group. "Nothing gets in or out."

"Until something big and powerful comes along and tears it down, which judging by the crowd of big and powerful things waiting outside, shouldn't be too long." Fred announced, peeking out the front windows to see the various huddled shapes waiting in the shadows. She shook her head, letting the curtain fall back into place and then continued her trek toward her laptop, which was in Wesley's office.

"I didn't say it was a _permanent_ solution. But it'll bide us some time while we think of one—so, anyone think of one?" Lorne asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

"More weapons for starters." Gunn remarked. "There a fire escape in this bubble?"

"Of course, what would a magical barrier be without an emergency exit?" Lorne replied amiably. "It's down in the sewer—I'll show you how it works." He started toward Gunn, waving his hand around the expansive hotel lobby as he walked. "Y'know this hum is going to drive me absolutely bonkers. Can we kill the fluorescents? Really bad for the green complexion."

"We ain't got no fluorescents—maybe your ears are still ringing from the big bang." Gunn suggested as the two of them exited down the basement steps.

"Oh dear, that reminds me… the Toth demon." Wesley muttered to himself, lifting the dry erase marker and adding the new item to the list on the board. "It has a sort of fluorescent gleam to its face—and a habit of trying to destroy those who are named in prophecies."

Angel was now pacing in and out of the kitchen area, still rocking the baby. "Come on, it's a nice babba. You wanna stop crying and take your babba, yes you do… _please_?"

Cordelia's eyes followed the father and son as they moved out of her view, the baby's cries echoing ceaselessly through the recesses of the hotel. "Do you think Angel will _ever_ let us have a turn?" She whined to the half demon still nestled beside her on the sofa. "How's the kid supposed to bond with his Aunt Cordy and Uncle Doyle if we never even get to touch him?"

"Just give Angel a little time to adjust." Doyle responded, his gaze stretching toward the kitchen entryway and then rebounding to Cordelia's face. "Not that I can speak from experience, seeing how I never even _had_ a dad, but I'm sure it's scary even in the best o' circumstances. There's no harm in him bein' a bit clingy."

"Papa Bear will have to unclench eventually." Cordelia insisted. "Not just because I wanna hold the baby—there are other reasons, too. Like, when it comes time to fight. Juggling a kid and a sword—not recommended. Or, what if he's sick and needs to go to a doctor during daylight hours, huh? What happens then? But, most importantly… I _really_ wanna hold him!"

Doyle's eyes lifted back over to his best friend who came back into view, still negotiating with the infant about drinking his 'babba.' His eyes glazed over with wistfulness and a gleam of admiration.

"If something was wrong with the boy, not even daylight would stop Angel." Doyle assured her, leaning his head back and letting a satisfied smile fall over his lips, even as he watched Wesley add more names to the ever-growing list on the white board. "Don't worry, Princess. I have it on good authority that you'll hold that baby… some day."

* * *

" _Too ra loo ra loo ra, that's an Irish lullaby..."_

Angel had been singing over the baby's crib, as the infant continued to cry and fuss. He broke off, leaning his head against the railing in defeat. Doyle had been quietly observing from the doorway, but once Angel's shoulders slumped, he entered and cleared his throat to announce his presence, although Angel undoubtedly already knew he'd been standing there.

"That's a good choice o' lullabies, if I do say so myself." Doyle remarked, pacing over to the crib and leaning over the opposite side, dangling a finger down at the baby kicking around inside. "I was worried you'd go with Manilow; that'd only make him cry harder."

"I give up." Angel answered glumly. "I've fed him, and changed him, and held him and put him down. What else am I supposed to do?" He paused to indicated the obvious—the baby was still crying. "I'm a terrible father. I can't even get him to stop crying." Sighing heavily, Angel reached back into the cradle and lifted the baby into his arms once again, resuming the pacing he'd done for the majority of the day.

"You've been a father for less than a day, man." Doyle pointed out. "Cut yourself some slack… and maybe, ya wanna try relaxing a bit? If I can feel all those raw nerves o' yours, the little guy can feel 'em, too."

"How can I relax when my son has an enemies list a mile long?!" Angel countered. "You'd be the same way."

"Yeah, I would. No doubt about that." Doyle allowed, an affable grin coming to his face, despite Angel's edginess. "But, y'know what else I'd do? I'd focus on the part where I _had_ a son. Just look at him, man—that babe in your arms isn't just a mission that'll come and go. He's your own flesh and blood. Just… _enjoy_ that, yeah?"

Angel paused his agitated movements and looked down at the child, still screaming his little pink head off. It only took a moment for his expression to soften and some of the tension in his muscles to drain away. "He's a miracle."

"That's right. _Your_ little miracle." Doyle agreed, moving closer to Angel and the baby and resting a supportive hand on his friend's shoulder. "A miracle that could use a name—not that I'm rushing ya or anything."

"You already know his name," Angel replied. He was smiling now, his face full of a new father's pride and awe. "Don't you?"

"Maybe." Doyle answered coyly. "But, I'm keeping it to myself 'til ya make it all official-like." He gave Angel another reassuring pat on the back and then turned to leave the room, seeing that his work here was done. At least for now.

"Uh… Doyle?" Angel called over his shoulder, causing Doyle to pause before he hit the door. "You have any other, uh… tips? Maybe something that'll help with the crying?"

Doyle laughed and gave a little shrug. "Earplugs?"

* * *

Gunn pulled a flame-thrower out of a hefty duffle bag full of weapons; he tossed it to Wesley, who bumbled the object, nearly dropping it, before finally gaining a secure grip. The two men exchanged long-suffering glances and Gunn reached back into the bag to dig out the next item.

From across the lobby, there was a persistent tapping as Fred pattered away on the keys of her laptop, shaking her head repeatedly and mumbling quietly under her breath. Several yards behind her, around the corner from the reception area, Doyle stood in the doorway of the Janitor's closet, waiting for a certain other female co-worker to happen by…

"Ahhh!" Cordelia shrieked, as Doyle took her by surprise, slipping his arms around her waist and drawing her backwards into the closet. He quickly shut the door before any of the others could react to her cry. Once inside, he released her, and she immediately whirled around to face him, her eyes blazing with annoyance. It was then that he noticed the very large sword she was carrying in her right hand, which thankfully hadn't been swung at his head.

"What the hell, Doyle?!" She shouted, indicating the sword in her hand. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on a person with a sword?!"

"Sorry, love." He said with an apologetic grin. "Didn't mean to give ya a start, I just needed to getcha alone for a minute."

She let out a long, exasperated breath. "Listen, I know it's been a while since we've gotten our sexy hijinks on, but I really don't think now is the right time, what with the legions of demons waiting to storm the place—and the janitor's closet? _Really_? Are you _trying_ to make me feel like I'm back in high school?"

Doyle was mostly amused by her mini-tirade, but he did actually have a mission to accomplish, which is why he held up his hands in a sign of peace, and then carefully reached out to remove the sword from her hand. He placed it in the corner, making sure it wouldn't fall over and clatter to the ground. "Sadly, I didn't pull ya in here for what you're thinking I did." He explained, not without some regret. "As it turns out, the place is bugged and this is the only safe place for us to talk."

"Bugged?" Cordelia repeated, blinking her eyes rapidly. "Since when? How do you…?"

"Pays to have a psychic houseguest." Doyle clarified, searching his pocket for the piece of paper that had been given to him earlier in the day. "Lorne slipped this note to Angel this morning." He passed the folded note over to Cordelia and let her read it for herself. "Whole place is wired up real good—audio _and_ video."

As her eyes scanned the handwritten letters on the slip of paper, she shook her head in disgust. "Can those lawyers get any lower? I mean, what next? Will they be releasing an Angel Investigations sex tape?" Her head popped up and her eyes widened with veiled horror. "Oh, God. You don't think they'd actually do that, do you?"

"Ah… can we just focus on one crisis at a time?" He begged, trying not to get distracted by the thought of a room full of white haired men in suits getting their jollies on the Cordy/Doyle show.

"Right, focusing." She promised. "We've got an army of killer demons outside, waiting for their chance to get to Angel's baby. And every move we make is being watched by Wolfram & Hart. So… what do we do?"

"We use it to our advantage." Doyle replied matter-of-factly. "Put on a big show for the cameras—Angel makes like he's taking the baby and leaving through the sewer tunnels. We argue the point—hem and haw 'bout him leaving us all to die..."

"So far, not loving this plan." Cordelia remarked, folding her arms over her chest.

"Once the cavalry gets wind o' the fact that the baby's on the run… they'll follow." Doyle finished with a lift of his brows for emphasis. "While _we_ take little Connor here for his very first check up." Turning abruptly, Doyle revealed the small infant who'd been nestled inside a well-cushioned box at his feet. The baby had been so quiet that Cordelia hadn't even known he was there, but her face lit up as Doyle lifted the small bundle and held him out in her direction. "Wanna hold him, Aunt Cordy?"

The squeal that erupted from her lips, made Doyle chuckle with delight as he transferred the baby into her awaiting arms. She smiled down at the child, tracing a finger along his plump little cheek. "His name is Connor?" She asked happily, her eyes still glued to his cherubic little face.

"Good Irish name, yeah?" Doyle confirmed, sliding his arm around her shoulders, so he could also admire the baby. "Glad he didn't end up with Francis."

Cordelia giggled as she calmly bounced little Connor in her arms. "What's the rest of the plan?" She wondered, keeping her voice soft and light as if she was reading a bedtime story rather than discussing the ensuing battle for their lives. "What happens when the demon mob realizes they've been tricked and all come rushing back for this little sweetie?"

"Well… there'll be the diversionary-baby, which'll actually be a bomb. That'll thin the herd a bit." Doyle assured her, keeping his arm securely in place as he spoke close to her ear. He matched her placid tone for the baby's sake, seeing that little Connor was hanging on their every word. "Then, I think Angel plans to take out an insurance policy with Wolfram & Hart."

"Is that also going to be a bomb?" Cordelia asked, in a cutesy sing-song manner.

"More of an-eye-for-an-eye type o' deal." Doyle clarified. "Solid plan—should last a bit longer than the mystical barrier... and I figured you'd like the part where you and I are on baby duty."

"I definitely like that part." Cordelia said enthusiastically, temporarily shifting her eyes up to meet Doyle's, before turning them back to the bundle in her arms. "Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" She asked admiringly, lifting the baby a little higher so Doyle could have a better look at the child's face.

Doyle's eyes never left the face of his smiling girlfriend as she cooed over the infant. "No… never."


	27. The First Noel

**A/N - I know, I know, you were expecting "Birthday" to start right away and I don't blame you because that's always been a favorite episode of mine. And, honestly, it was one of my favorite episodes to rewrite! BUT, before we get there I thought it was important to acknowledge the passing of time and to give Cordy and Doyle a moment to breathe . So, I hope you enjoy this bit of Christmas in August. ;)**

* * *

 **27\. The First Noel**

The silver pieces of tinsel sparkled as Cordelia carefully placed them on the bushy branches of the large pine tree that now stood beside the main staircase in the Hyperion lobby. Colored lights twinkled on and off as she worked, jauntily humming _Frosty the Snowman_ to herself. She was surrounded by overflowing boxes of Christmas ornaments and other bits and bobbles. She'd even bought an adorable little gingerbread house, which seemed like the perfect holiday task to assign to—

"Rudolph?"

Cordelia nearly toppled her from the top of the step stool she'd been precariously balanced upon. Doyle, who'd been the one to distract her, offered a hand of support. "Had ya pegged for more of a Frosty girl." He grinned teasingly up at her and she swatted his hand away.

"That _was_ Frosty." She corrected, and the expression on his face told him she hadn't gotten anywhere near close to resembling the actual tune. She stuck her tongue out at him good-naturedly, knowing that she wasn't exactly musically inclined. Of course, it wouldn't kill him to humor her.

He merely winked in reply and then began circling the sizeable Christmas tree, admiring all the details she'd worked so hard on. After a few moments he paused and let out a high-pitched whistle. "You've really outdone yourself, Princess. The place has never looked more festive-like."

"If you ignore the scorch marks and dried entrails underneath all the tinsel." She commented, stepping down from her stool and walking over to one of the boxes. "I just wanted to make things extra special for Connor—he'll only have one first Christmas. Ooooh, do you think Angel will let us take him to the mall to see Santa?!"

"Ah… that might be asking a bit much. We just got all those demons off our backs, last thing we need is a mall full o' pushy salespeople and holiday shoppers." Doyle replied, moving toward her so he could peer into the box she was currently pawing through—he lifted a glistening green Christmas bulb and held it up to the light. As he lowered it again he caught Cordelia's glowering eye. "Most kids just cry when they see the jolly fat guy …why go through all that when we can have Wesley make him cry right here?"

Tossing her hair in answer, Cordelia went back to sifting through the box of colorful baubles, searching for something in particular. "Connor's not like most kids, Doyle—how many kids do _you_ know that have prophecies written about them hundreds of years before their birth?" She asked rhetorically. "Not to mention, he seems to prefer Angel's vamp face over cute things; what are we supposed to get him for Christmas? Do they even sell stuffed monsters?"

"There's that vampire guy from _Sesame Street_." Doyle suggested, carefully placing the green ball back into its box. "The one who's always counting stuff."

"The Count." She clarified, trying to refrain from adding the word 'duh' to her previous statement.

Doyle's eyes lit up as he had a minor epiphany; he shook his head chuckling to himself. "Clever little puppets, yeah? And, hey, it'd be educational. Start him early on the road to college scholarships."

"You've had worse ideas." Cordelia conceded, finally finding the item she was looking for and lifting it from the box. In her hand was a sparkling crystal angel for the top of the tree, which she held up victoriously. Doyle lifted his brows approvingly and she placed the angel to the side for later. "College tuitions don't pay themselves; hence, the reason I never went."

As she bent over to place some of the glass bulbs on the lower branches of the tree, Doyle's eyes followed her, hungrily admiring the view. He hadn't seen her this upbeat in ages—she was downright cheerful. And what's more, so was he. He knew they had Connor's presence to thank for the obvious good moods all around. There was just something about having a baby around that made everything feel… merrier and _brighter_.

Doyle left his girlfriend beneath the tree, gleefully humming off-key Christmas carols. But he only went far enough to retrieve a small package from his carefully selected hiding place. Professionally wrapped gift in hand, Doyle sidled back over to the lobby's new centerpiece where Cordelia had just finished affixing a gleaming red ball. Once she turned away to retrieve a new ornament, he deftly slipped his package under the tree and then wandered a few steps away, casually shoving his hands in his pockets.

When she turned back to the tree, it took her less than a second to hone in on the foreign object beneath its boughs. The shiny gold paper, topped with a poofy red bow, was an eye-catcher. "What's this?" She demanded, her eyes lighting up along with her smile. No matter how many things had changed about Cordelia over the years—the look on her face when she received a present had not.

"Open it." Doyle recommended, trying to keep his own eager smile under wraps to build the suspense.

Without needing further encouragement, Cordelia scooped up the gift and tore into the paper, quickly revealing the framed picture contained inside, which she gaped at with an uncertain smile. "It's a boat." She deadpanned with the smile frozen awkwardly on her lips. "Thanks… I'll put it on my desk and think of _boats_ often."

Her eyes said what her words didn't. _It's the thought that counts._

Doyle began to snicker, not at all surprised by her lack of enthusiasm. He sauntered a few steps closer and waved an index finger at the back of the frame. "There's more to it than meets the eye, darlin'. Why don't ya take the picture out and get a better view?"

The creases in her forehead multiplied, even as she dutifully followed his instructions. Removing the photo from the frame, she found that it was actually part of a much larger photograph, folded several times and forcefully crammed into the framed setting. As she smoothed out the folds of the oversized image, her eyes widened with recognition. "A brochure for Princess Cruise lines?!"

"Seemed appropriate." Doyle confirmed, a coy smile playing at the edge of his lips. "Maybe you could even wear your tiara."

"You booked us a cruise?" She asked disbelievingly, looking overwhelmed by the unexpected gift—and maybe just a bit hesitant. "Wow, that's so… did I say wow?"

"Y'did." Doyle answered, with a bob of his head.

"It's so generous." She said, and then the slightest crease appeared above her brow. "And thoughtful…"

"But ya don't wanna go." Doyle guessed, taking the brochure from her hand and folding it back up into a frame-sized square. "That right?"

"What? _No_. We've been talking about this forever. Of course, I wanna go." She lied through her teeth, waving her hand as if he was crazy to say anything to the contrary. He tilted his head at her, causing her to immediately drop the act. "Okay, so maybe I don't wanna go _right_ _now_ , but that doesn't mean I don't wanna go."

Doyle still had the hint of a smile on his face, despite her apparent rejection of the gift—the truth was, he'd half-expected this reaction. "Ah… think I know what this is about, yeah?"

"No, Doyle, I swear—it's not what you think." She swore, shaking her head adamantly. "This has nothing to do with me having the visions!"

"It's 'cause of Connor." He stated matter-of-factly, with no trace of accusation or anger.

"It's about Co—oh. I guess, it _is_ what you think." She admitted, looking more than a little ashamed. "Is it crazy that I don't wanna leave him yet?" She wondered, wringing her hands together as she pled her case. "He's so little and _new_. We go now and we could miss something really big, like his first word or step."

"Or first apocalypse." Doyle added wryly.

"Naturally." Cordelia replied, and then reached out to take his hand in her own, peering up at him through her lashes. "You're not mad, are you? I mean… you get it, right? I _love_ the gift. It's perfect… but I also hope it's refundable?"

Truth be told, Doyle was far less concerned about missing Connor's first word than he had been about missing the chance to save the boy from a very dark and cataclysmic future. Now that the Nyazian scroll had up and walked away, Doyle was left with a slightly more positive outlook on the things to come. Even if Connor was still in danger, at least the danger would only be coming from _outside_ the hotel.

"No need for all that." Doyle said, scratching the back of his head and flashing her a sheepish grin. "I didn't exactly book anything."

"Huh?" She asked, rapidly switching from apologetic to confounded. "So… you got me a brochure for Christmas?"

There was the slightest hint of annoyance coloring her words, but Doyle easily laughed it off. "I bought us _vouchers_ , love." He explained, popping the folded brochure back into its frame, fastening the back securely shut and placing the photo on top of one of the boxes with a little pat. "I figured it was better to be flexible with our crazy schedules. The date and destination are blank, but, don'tya worry, Princess—I spent actual hard-earned money on this here gift."

She playfully swatted him as she broke out into a million watt grin. " _You_...can be really sweet sometimes."

"Just don't let it get out." He replied putting on a false air of seriousness.

"Okay!" She said brightly, clapping her hands together with renewed vigor and bouncing in place. "If I get to open my Christmas gift early, then it's only fair that you do the same." She motioned for him not to move and then sprinted away toward her desk.

Doyle followed her instructions, rocking back and forth on his heels as he waited patiently by the tree—pretending not to watch as she crawled under her desk to retrieve a long rectangular white box that clearly contained some sort of clothes-item. She raced back over to him, wearing a proud smile as she presented him with the unwrapped present.

Graciously accepting the gift, Doyle lifted the lid, brushing aside a thin sheet of tissue paper. Folded beneath the fluffy whiteness was a slightly weathered brown leather jacket. As he pulled it out and tossed the box aside, Doyle inspected the curious item—it looked nearly identical to the brown leather jacket he already owned, except it was much cleaner and didn't appear to have any holes. "Ya found the same one?" He asked with surprise, turning it around to examine it from all angles.

"It _is_ the same one." Cordelia explained, reaching out to run her fingers over the beaten leather. She paused when her finger came across the shoulder, which had previously featured a gaping tear—it was now sown up tight as if the hole had never existed. "I took it to a leather guy—he recommended I burn it, but I went with the mending instead. And a deep clean, complete with finishing polish. Looks pretty good, if I do say so myself."

Lifting his brows to show just how impressed he was, Doyle spun the jacket back around, noting that every single hole had been patched, and nearly every stain removed. He immediately swung the garment over his shoulders, sliding his arms into place and admiring the feel of his trusty old jacket that looked as close to new as it ever could. He adjusted the collar and grinned broadly. "How do I look?"

"You look like Doyle." Cordelia answered, taking in the sight of him. "I was really tempted to buy you a new one, but I know how much you love this old thing."

"I do." He said happily, reaching out his arms to pull her toward him. " _Almost_ as much as I love you."

"I love you, too." She replied warmly, running her hands over his leather-clad chest. "Merry Christmas, Doyle."

"Merry Christmas, Princess." He answered, pulling her even closer and letting his eyes trail over her lips. "Now, whereabouts did ya hang the mistletoe, huh?" He waggled his eyebrows at her playfully and she played along, fluttering her eyelashes.

"You know… I _forgot_." She said teasingly, slowly gliding out of his arms, but making sure her hand landed firmly in his. "Guess you'll have to help me find it."

Leading him by the hand, she started up the main staircase, with a silent promise to kiss him senseless whenever they reached their destination.


	28. Birthday, Part 1

**28\. Birthday, Part I**

"I should've left the tree up." Cordelia said glumly. "It was so much nicer with the tree."

She was leaning her elbow on the front counter with her hand pressed against her cheek as she stared wistfully across the cavernous lobby. It seemed much emptier—and gloomier—now that all the holiday cheer had been packed away.

"I don't think the fire inspector would've approved." Fred responded from where she leaned beside Cordelia, also taking in the view. "It'd be all brown and dead by now—oh, but it's not too early to decorate for Valentine's Day... if you're into that sorta thing, which you probably are, since you already know you'll have a valentine, unlike the rest of us permanently single folks."

Cordelia sighed again, forcing herself to stop pondering the office decor. She moved to her desk, tossing a lackluster reply over her shoulder. "A few lame cardboard hearts won't hide the state of our scuffed floor nearly as well as the hundreds of pine needles did." Locating her purse, she began to dig through its contents for her compact mirror.

Fred eyed the floor tiles, which did appear to be slightly scuffy. "We could put the hearts on the floor?" She suggested helpfully, and then wrinkled her nose as she gave that idea further thought. "Although, it may send the wrong message—stomping on hearts is something people generally avoid on Valentine's Day."

"Not always." Cordelia noted, holding her tiny mirror at arm's length as she fussed with her hair, which didn't seem to want to cooperate on this particular evening. She pushed her bangs one way and then the other, frowning at the results of both styles. She gave up, tossing the mirror back into her purse. "Decorations are not the point... all I'm saying is, the floor isn't going to buff itself. Maybe we have a buffer in the janitor's closet—do you happen to know what a buffer looks like?"

Giggling as Cordelia started toward the closet, Fred stopped abruptly and widened her eyes when she realized her coworker was serious. "Cordy, you can't buff the floor now!" She objected, skittering along in Cordelia's wake. "You'll ruin your pretty dress, and then you'll have to go home and change, and you and Doyle will miss your dinner reservations."

"Gee, we wouldn't want that." Cordelia grumped in reply, rubbing idly at her temple.

The vision headache from her previous vision still lingered, which was unusual considering that had been two whole days ago. It was frustrating to find that the visions weren't getting any easier, as she expected they would. Rather, it seemed like every vision she had was just a little bit worse than the one that came before it. Except for the last one, which had been _a lot_ worse.

Cordelia was forced to consider the damage that was accumulating inside her brain, forever altering her physiology. If the outside of her head throbbed as much as it did, imagine what was happening to the inside!

She tried not to imagine too hard. Anxiety certainly wouldn't help her headache. And it wasn't like there was anything that could be done to change her current predicament, aside from the grinning and bearing she'd been doing for the past several months.

"You don't wanna go out for your birthday?" Fred inquired, following in Cordelia's footsteps and bringing her nervous energy along with her. "Is it… y'know, because of the visions?"

Cordelia stopped walking and took her third sigh in as many minutes. "Doyle." She grumbled under her breath. It was bad enough that Doyle thought the visions had turned her into a head case, he certainly shouldn't be sharing that information with anyone else. "I didn't say I didn't wanna go… but now that you mention it, I could have a vision in the middle of the restaurant. I'd rather avoid a replay of my first date with Doyle, thank you very much."

"That really happened?" Fred asked with surprise.

"Oh, yeah. Ours is far from a storybook romance." Cordelia explained, waving her hand in the air as she idly reminisced. "I'd say it was more of a noir in the beginning, with a little bit of a rom com for good measure. From there we transitioned to horror-thriller. Not a great genre for romance—it's a small miracle we got together at all."

"It was meant to be." Fred responded admiringly. "The type of relationship that really lasts. I mean, just look how you already weathered a mighty big storm and stayed afloat!"

"Ship metaphor—cute." Cordelia remarked as she picked up her journey toward the closet. "Truth is, we didn't float so much as sunk to the bottom and invested in some scuba gear. We weren't even together on my birthday last year."

Fred had scampered into Cordelia's path and stood in front of the closet door with an oversized smile that was aiming for casual, but read as awkward instead. "That's why you're going out to celebrate this year! Right?! Because you _are_ together!"

"Yeah." Cordelia agreed, stopping short so she wouldn't mow over the smaller woman. Her fingers reflexively lifted to the heart-shaped glass bauble that hung loosely around her throat. "It would break Doyle's half-demon heart not to be able to spoil me rotten tonight."

"It does seem pretty important to him." Fred agreed encouragingly. "He's been planning for weeks—um, the reservations, I mean. Weeks and weeks."

"Well, I'd gladly trade whatever overpriced restaurant he plans on taking me to for some sweatpants and a foot rub—wow, I really have become a completely different person, haven't I?" She said with a disbelieving shake of her head. She plucked a piece of fluff off the front of her little black dress and shrugged. Giving up her search for cleaning supplies, she instead sauntered off toward the staircase. "Guess I'd better snag some baby snuggles before I go—wait, I just figured it out." She announced, pausing dramatically with her index finger pointed straight up into the air. "The moodiness, the penny-pinching, the obsession with Connor… I've turned into Angel. Okay, now I _am_ depressed."

Cordelia trudged up the steps and disappeared on the second floor landing. The moment she was out of sight, Fred opened the door to the janitor's closet and retrieved a bunch of colorful balloons that were hidden there. She'd thought for sure that Cordelia would open the door and ruin the surprise.

As Fred arranged the balloons behind the counter, the front door burst open and Doyle rushed in wearing a huge smile. He was carrying a large, rectangular cake box. Behind him Wesley, Gunn and Lorne entered, each loaded down with bags full of party supplies and presents.

"Where is she?" Doyle asked as he placed the cake on the counter.

"Upstairs with the baby." Fred answered excitedly. "She doesn't suspect a thing!"

"Hope she's not too disappointed there's no big fancy dinner plans." Doyle admitted with a semi-apologetic grin, as he snagged a pair of scissors from the pen-holder and cut the ties around the cake box. "Hadda lay it on real thick, so she wouldn't guess what I was really up to."

"I don't think she'll mind." Fred chirped in reply, not bothering to elaborate on just how desperate Cordelia was to avoid those fancy dinner plans. There was no point in making Doyle worry that Cordelia wasn't feeling her best, although Fred suspected he always knew. It was kind of his thing to know.

"Where should I put all the presents?" Gunn interjected, looking for an empty surface to fill.

"Somewhere obvious." Doyle instructed. "The presents are the most important part, yeah?"

"Her desk might be a good place." Wesley advised from the other end of the reception area, where he was laying out a punch bowl and some little plastic cups. Nearby, Lorne taped up some streamers, whistling as he worked. Gunn moved toward Cordelia's desk and began piling the wrapped boxes into an eye-catching pyramid.

Doyle finished cutting all the strings on the cake box and opened the lid revealing the impressive Wonder Woman cake nested within. "They got 'er just right." Doyle remarked to Fred, who peeked curiously over his shoulder.

"Yup! It looks just like Cordy." She agreed, stooping behind the reception counter to dig out the box of candles she'd hidden there earlier.

"Ah… yeah, how about that?" Doyle replied, his eyes lingering on the multicolored frosting that made up Wonder Woman's shapely figure. "She was my first crush, y'know… before I graduated to live flesh and blood."

Fred merely giggled in reply as she poured the small wax candles into her palm and began counting out the ones would go into the cake-top. "One for good luck." She reminded Doyle as she reached number twenty-two.

Turning to take in all the decorations, Doyle was pleased with the display. They had thought of everything—the only thing missing was the birthday girl herself. Lifting his wrist to chest level, Doyle checked his vintage watch—the one Cordelia had gifted to him on his last birthday. She had to be coming down those stairs any minute if they were going to make their fake dinner reservations. "Alright. Places, everyone." He instructed, causing the others to hastily finish what they were doing and cluster around the cake.

All eyes were on the staircase.

The wait felt longer than it was, due to the high level of anticipation. In reality, only a minute or two passed before Angel and the baby appeared on the stairs. "Don't worry I have another bottle down here." The vampire was calling over his shoulder, as he winked dramatically at the group clustered by the front counter.

He swiftly moved down the steps allowing Cordelia a full view of the party waiting for her below.

"Surprise!" Everyone shouted in unison, as Cordelia slowly made her way down the staircase in a daze. As soon as she realized what was happening, her face lit up as bright as the Christmas tree that had formerly adorned the space.

"For me?!" She squealed excitedly, quickening her pace and rushing over to the counter to get a better view of the cake and the mound of presents piled a few feet away. "You guys!" She lifted her hands to her mouth as she took in the birthday party fit for a superhero.

"Happy Birthday, Cordy!" The chorus of voices staggered, no longer in unison as they each shared their own personal birthday greeting. Doyle swiftly moved around the counter, his hand landing on the small of her back and his lips against her cheek. "Happy Birthday, Princess... figured ya wouldn't mind saving the dinner plans for another night. This way, ya get to celebrate with the whole gang, Connor included."

"It's exactly what I wanted!" She said enthusiastically, wrapping her arms around him and bouncing as they hugged. "Look at all those presents!" She stepped back, and clapped her hands together as she turned to the rest of the group behind the counter, all of whom were wearing proud smiles of their own. "Whose should I open first?!"

"Youngest to oldest." Angel volunteered from his place beside Cordelia and Doyle; he bounced the baby in his arms as he spoke. "Connor wins."

"Aww, did you get me a present, Connor?" Cordelia asked in a baby-ish voice, reaching out to tickle the baby's chunky cheek.

"I had to help him." Angel admitted bashfully, as if it was a big secret.

"OH!" Cordelia shouted, her eyes going wide. She took a step away from Angel and the baby, clumsily grasping for the edge of the counter. "Oh, no! Oh, NO!"

All the gleeful faces around her rapidly morphed into confusion and concern.

"Damn vision." Doyle shouted, reaching out to place a stabilizing hand on Cordelia's shoulder. Or at least he attempted to do that, but all he touched was air. Before he could actually lay his hand against her skin, she jolted forward against the countertop, inadvertently sending her birthday cake splattering to the floor. Then, without so much as a pause, her body was flung violently backward, sending her clear across the room into the weapons cabinet. A loud crash was followed by the dull thud of her body hitting the floor and the light tinkling of glass showering around her.

Cordelia lay there on a bed of glass, completely unresponsive.

* * *

Doyle stood beside Lorne as he worked his mojo, trying to reach Cordelia within the unresponsive shell that was her body. Holding his breath, Doyle leaned over Lorne's shoulder looking for a sign that Cordelia would wake—a twitch in her lip, a flutter of her eyelid. As Lorne opened one of his red eyes and turned to face him, Doyle finally dared to exhale as he spoke.

"Why won't she wake up?" He demanded impatiently. "What d'ya see in there?"

"An extremely anxious half-demon jamming up my frequency." Lorne retorted, gesturing to the door of the hotel room where they'd brought Cordelia after the incident in the lobby. "Mind stepping outside, little buddy?"

Yes, he minded. Of course, he minded. Doyle didn't want to leave Cordelia's bedside for even a moment, but he also didn't want to be an obstacle in getting answers about what happened.

"Yeah, alright." He grunted unhappily, shuffling away after sending one more longing look in his catatonic girlfriend's direction. Trudging into the hallway, he closed the door behind him—once there, he started to pace, hoping his anxiety wouldn't seep right through the walls.

Angel had already been standing in the hallway; he said nothing as his best friend began to tread a line in the carpet. For once, he wasn't clutching Connor in his arms. The baby was downstairs in Fred's care, while Gunn helped Wesley hit the books. Not that Doyle expected those books to be any more helpful than they'd been the last several months—which was to say, _not_ _at_ _all_.

The visions remained as much a mystery now as they'd always been. Maybe more so in light of recent events.

"I knew giving her the visions was a bad idea." Doyle lamented, his head hung low.

"You had no other choice." Angel reminded his friend. "And up until now... she seemed like she was handling them. You had no reason to think something like this would happen."

"That's not entirely true, man. I knew what they were doing to her from the start." Doyle argued, running a hand through his hair and causing it to stand up on end, adding to his frantic appearance. "It's not that I wasn't tryin' to fix things... but, maybe I wasn't trying as hard as I shoulda been, yeah?" Doyle swallowed hard against his regret. "I thought we'd have more time."

The door to the hotel room clicked open and Lorne stood on the other side, the disappointment etched across his demon features as he shook his head in the negative.

"You musta seen something!" Doyle insisted.

"There's nothing to see." Lorne responded. "As far as I can tell—she's not in there."

"She's alive." Angel argued, pushing off he wall and taking a few steps forward to stand directly at Doyle's side. "I can hear her heartbeat from here."

"Physically." Lorne agreed, opening the door wide and stepping back so all three men in the doorway could see the woman lying in the bed. "Her consciousness however..." He shrugged, making it clear he had no further answers on that front. "I've gotten better readings from vegetables."

"She's not a vegetable!" Doyle snarled. "She's gonna wake up—she has to!"

"I didn't mean that kind of vegetable." Lorne answered apologetically, reaching out to pat Doyle's tense shoulder. "I meant, actual vegetables. Like the ones that grow on plants, which actually have brighter auras than you'd think. Sorry, poor phrasing on my part."

"So, she's not… um…" Angel looked uncomfortable as his eyes nervously darted to Doyle. He clearly didn't want to say anything that might upset him more than he already was. And the word "brain-dead" would definitely do it.

The psychic demon thankfully seemed to understand the question without it having to be uttered out loud. "She's the picture of health, as far as I can tell. My guess is she received a message so powerful it overloaded her system, thrusting her consciousness onto an alternate plane. Which tells us one thing for sure—the message didn't come from any earthly channels—this was the Higher Powers."

Doyle had gone several shades paler as Lorne's diagnosis was revealed. "They shoulda known better." He said under his breath, the lines in his face becoming more defined as his panic morphed into anger. "Killing the messenger won't get the job done. They know she's not a demon for crying out loud!"

"How can we get her back from that other plane?" Angel asked sensibly, trying to remain levelheaded to counteract Doyle's swiftly unraveling nerves. "Is there some way to go there and find her?"

"It doesn't work that way, generally speaking." Lorne replied hesitantly, the voice of someone who knew more than he would say. "A better question is—can we help her find her own way back?"

"You're both asking the wrong questions." Doyle interjected, clenching his fists until his knuckles whitened. "And you're asking the wrong people."

"Then tell me how to ask the right people, Doyle." Angel agreed, catching on quickly and knowing it was his duty to do what Doyle himself could not do.

It was time to talk directly to the Powers That Be.


	29. Birthday, Part 2

**29\. Birthday, Part II**

"There we go—it's much more comfortable here. Less distraction." The voice that came out of the imposing whitish-grey demon's mouth didn't match his fearsome disposition. "Are those guys always so tense?"

"What the hell is going on?!" Cordelia shouted up at the demon who had announced himself as her guide. Guide to _what_ exactly? Currently, all he had done was transported her from the halls of the Hyperion Hotel to an empty mall, with very little in the way of explanation. "Why couldn't Doyle hear me back there? Or Angel. Or even Lorne! You'd better start explaining, buddy."

"The name's Skip." The demon corrected, over his gigantic shoulder. "And the reason they couldn't hear you, is because you weren't really talking—although, I must say, your astral projection is excellent." He stuck a clawed finger into what must have served as his ear hole and wiggled it about. "This astral body of yours has no vocal cords. Those have been left behind in your physical body, along with all your other parts. To your friends, you're… comatose, for lack of a better word."

"I have to go back and tell them I'm alright!" She insisted, scrambling to keep up with Skip, who was in possession of much longer legs than she. Her astrally projected heels clacked against the tile floors of the fake-mall, or wherever they were. "Trust me, my boyfriend starts doing really crazy things when he thinks I'm in danger. I don't wanna get back to find that he's been turned into a frog trying to save me—that would be the worst birthday gift in history."

"Happy Birthday." Skip said offhandedly.

"Thanks." She replied. "So, can we reschedule this whole— _whatever_ this is? I should really get back to my party."

"That's actually why I'm here." Skip told her as he stopped abruptly and turned to face her, causing her to shuffle to a graceless stop. "Consider me your birthday fairy."

"You don't look like a fairy." Cordelia noted.

"It's a figure of speech." Skip clarified, with a slight roll of his demon eyes. "Like I said before, I'm a demon-guide… and I'm here to grant your wish."

"Oookay." Cordelia answered, scrunching up her face. "I didn't actually make any wishes yet—in fact, I'm pretty sure the cake went splat, so…"

"You always so literal?" Skip wondered, holding up a claw to quiet her. "Let's recap for a moment. You are _dying_ —that's why you can't go back. Your brain? About to go ka-boom."

"Oh." Cordelia uttered, taken aback by the blunt declaration of her apparent death-to-be. "That sucks."

"It does." Skip agreed. "Lucky for you, you're not the only one who thinks so." He pointed upward to illustrate who the other likeminded individuals were. "You're not supposed to die, Cordelia. They don't want you to; they wanna fix Doyle's mistake."

"Doyle's…?" She repeated incredulously, shaking her head. "It wasn't Doyle's fault. He did it to save me. If they wanna blame someone, try Wolfram & Hart. They're the ones who nearly killed me!"

"They know all the details." Skip answered gesturing for her to take it down a notch. "And, hey, personally, I can't say I blame the guy for doing what he did—it was a solid call. But it wasn't supposed to happen. The visions weren't meant for you. In fact, let me rewind a bit—your whole life of demon-crime-fighting is basically a big cosmic woops—"

"I don't understand." Cordelia interrupted, feeling like the world had started to tilt around her. Everything that had felt so certain, so real, felt… _off_ somehow. "The Powers don't want me?"

"You were never supposed to be a part of Angel Investigations." Skip confirmed matter-of-factly. "And I'm here to offer you that other life. The road not taken—the one you should've been on all along."

Cordelia's brows furrowed deeply as she considered Skip's proposition, but it didn't take her longer than a heartbeat to formulate her rejection. "That's okay. I think I'll just keep things the way they are. Thanks anyway."

"Are you sure?" Skip asked doubtfully. "Even with a death sentence hanging over your head?" When she still didn't change her answer, Skip sighed heavily and raised his eyes heavenward—assuming they weren't already in heaven, which Cordelia suspected not. "Don't tell me this is about that boyfriend of yours."

"So what if it is?" Cordelia countered. "If you're asking me to choose between a long Doyle-less life of not helping people versus the shorter, more meaningful, one I have now, I'll stick with what I've got."

"Wow. That's really kind of beautiful." Skip responded. "I'd tear up if I had tear ducts. Instead, I have to ask—what's the point? Your life is over. Kaput. You'll be dead in a few hours; your relationship—the whole mission—it's a thing of the past."

"But what about the other timeline?!" She argued, not willing to back down despite the finality of Skip's words. "The road taken and then _untaken_. Doyle died in that other place, but first he gave me the visions. And then I lived a few more years before going on my excellent adventure." She saw a curious look pass over Skip's otherwise unreadable demon features, as if he didn't understand the reference. "...as in _Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure_. Popular 80s movie about time travel."

"I got the reference. Great film." Skip assured her. "What surprises me is that you know about that."

"Well, I've always had a thing for Keanu." Cordelia explained.

"Not that. The other thing." Skip clarified.

"It's true, isn't it?" Cordelia shot back. "I've only had the visions for a few months. Why am I dying now? It's too soon."

"You know, Doyle could get in trouble for blabbing about all that." Skip continued, ignoring her questions. "There are rules."

"I'm dying! Screw the rules!" She shouted back at him, waving her hands in frustration. "Tell me why I could handle the visions in that other timeline and not this one?!"

Skip stopped reprimanding and let out a beleaguered sigh, crossing his tree-trunk arms over his broad chest. "The answer is—you couldn't. You died there, too. It was only your astral form that traveled to the past—your body was already wasting away, hooked up to machines."

"Oh." Cordelia said, nearly choking on the air, which she supposed wasn't really there. Which was fine since she also didn't have lungs.

"I'm guessing Doyle didn't tell you that part, huh?" Skip said gently, observing her slack-jawed appearance. "Maybe he didn't know. Astral forms can be very lifelike… Honestly, it's better if he didn't know, just like it's better if he never has to see what comes next. Trust me, when you have your next vision and your brain comes bursting out of your skull, he isn't gonna take it well. I could give you a preview, but I don't recommend it. There'd be a lot of brain splatter, followed by a lot of whiskey, vomit, probably a gutter. He'd never forgive himself."

"That's what will happen?" Cordelia croaked, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. "In one version of events he died, in the other _I_ die... we were never meant to live happily ever after, were we?"

"Messengers rarely do." Skip replied.

Cordelia's fingers tangled in the silver chain around her neck, clasping the precious glass heart that was representative of Doyle. "But I thought I'd found my _purpose_. And my soulmate. It felt like… _fate_ , y'know?"

"It wasn't." Skip said dismissively. "The night you met Angel at that Hollywood party, you were supposed to get discovered. He distracted you and poof! You missed your shot at stardom. Just like that."

"Really?" She asked, pursing her lips together thoughtfully as she tried to recall her state of mind that night. She'd been so desperate for her shot at fame; hard to believe she'd been on the verge of it and something so small could have thrown her completely off course and straight into— "What about Doyle?"

"He was always where he was supposed to be—by Angel's side." Skip assured her. "That would still be the case; they'd be together and you'd be on a different path. The _right_ path. Beverly Hills mansion included."

She hesitated, unmoved by the allure of fame and fortune. It didn't seem nearly as intoxicating as it once had. The hollow feeling that had sprouted in her chest started to grow and ache as she tried to imagine a life so different from the one she'd known. A life without Doyle. Not loving him, not even knowing him. As if that wasn't bad enough, she wouldn't even have her friends. Or, most importantly, the mission. She would just be that girl she'd been back in Sunnydale, except the money would be hers instead of her father's. That part wasn't exactly terrible.

But, what good would the money be if she had nothing else?

Skip noticed her hesitation and let out a resigned sigh. "Listen, Princess, let me level with you... In this other life, you'd be rich and famous. You could have anything you wanted." He paused for dramatic effect as she eyed him curiously. "Any _one_ you wanted—no matter how much of a schlub he may be."

"So… I could find Doyle in this other life?" She questioned, the hope starting to pour back into her. "We could still end up together."

"That's not my call." Skip answered, holding his hands up, palms facing her. "All I can promise is that you'll have a 90210 zip code, a sizable bank account and the free will to do what you want with it."

"If two people are meant to be together..." She repeated the words Doyle had once said to her. He hadn't been talking about their relationship at the time, but that didn't mean the theory didn't apply to them. She had to trust that he was right, since judging by the current situation, this was the only version of the story where they might have a shot at a happy ending.

"I really hadn't figured you were such a romantic." Skip remarked.

"I'll take the deal." She decided, raising her chin bravely. "I wanna live."

"Well, okay then." Skip said as a satisfied smile lit up his demon face. "Your new world awaits you, Cordelia Chase..."

* * *

Doyle caught Angel before he fell. The vampire was a wreck—his clothes torn, his eyes nearly swollen shut, the rest of his body broken and bleeding. If he wasn't immortal, he'd surely be dead. Just about the only thing the Conduit hadn't done was stake him through the heart.

"I'm sorry." Angel wheezed, wrapping a twisted arm around his badly bruised ribcage.

"I'm the one who's sorry, man." Doyle said, helping his friend into the open chair at Cordelia's bedside. "It shoulda been me who went."

"They'd have killed you." Angel deflected, pausing to cough a few times. It sounded like he had some blood collecting in his lungs—it was a good thing he didn't need to breathe. "Y'know, I really thought you were exaggerating."

"Makes ya miss the non-violent unhelpfulness of the Oracles, yeah?" Doyle remarked, pacing away from Angel to check on Cordelia for the thousandth time. She was still resting peacefully on the bed. His sleeping beauty.

"I tried everything I could think of." Angel went on, grunting from the effort of talking. "I argued. I begged. They said the choice wasn't mine—they couldn't interfere. Or they _won't,_ more like it."

"They did once." Doyle replied sorrowfully, tracing one of his fingers along the curve of Cordelia's cheekbone.

"We could… go back to Wolfram & Hart." Angel's voice was hesitant, as if he knew that wasn't the right solution. "If they take the visions; maybe it'd bring Cordy back."

"She'd never agree to that." Doyle responded, his gaze fixed to her face. Wishing there was a way he could crawl inside her head and wake her up from the inside. He stood up a little straighter as a bizarre idea formed in his mind. Something that definitely leaned toward the insane side of the crazy plan spectrum.

"She can't really weigh in." Angel pointed out, shifting in the chair to find a more comfortable position for his injured body. "It might be the only chance we have to save her."

"There might be another way." Doyle announced, a surge of motivation flowing through him as he silently made his decision. He leaned over to plant a kiss on Cordelia's forehead before whirling toward Angel. "Stay with her 'til I get back."

He gave the order and rapidly strode toward the front door without waiting for an answer. Truthfully, he couldn't risk stopping, or he may lose his nerve.

"Doyle." Angel called, his voice laced with concern. "Please tell me this other way won't get you killed?"

Whipping the door open and heading out of the room as quickly as his legs would carry him, Doyle offered no response to Angel's question. In his mind, that question was irrelevant. Right now, all that mattered was giving Cordelia a chance to see another day.

Even if he might not be there to share it with her…


	30. Birthday, Part 3

**30\. Birthday, Part III**

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the two time Emmy award winning star of our show, the gal with the million dollar smile: Cordelia Chase!"

The warmth of the spotlight fell across Cordelia's face and she opened her eyes as the wild applause exploded around her. She took a bow and then another one as the live-audience continued cheering, some even springing to their feet to give her a standing ovation. She could see the members of the crew and her fellow cast mates clapping as well and the pride swelled within her.

Pure adoration—this would never get old.

Giving the crowd one final wave, Cordelia exited toward the long hallway that led to her dressing room. As soon as she was out of view, she blew out a long breath, sweeping her short curls off the back of her neck. Boy, those studio lights were hot. If she didn't know better, she'd swear they could give her a sunburn. Her assistant, Nev, fell into step beside her, handing her a cold water bottle.

"Great show, Cordy!" Someone in the hall chirped at her as she gulped down the refreshing beverage. She nodded and smiled, but didn't reply as she continued toward her private quarters. Nev rushed a few steps ahead of her, opening the door to her dressing room before she got there and allowing her free entrance into the room.

Inside her private quarters, she dropped into one of the ultra-plush chairs and put her feet up on the coffee table in front of her. Nev hovered in the doorway, scrolling through a PDA. "Okay. You've got a costume fitting. And then the Producers want to run some ideas past you for next week's show."

"I don't feel like doing any of that. Move it to tomorrow." Cordelia instructed, sinking deeper into her chair and combing her eyes over the objects in the room. There were scattered photos on the walls—Cordelia walking the red carpet, Cordelia receiving her first Emmy, Cordelia posing with her wax figure at Madame Tussaud's. In every photo she was smiling brightly, looking her very best for the flashbulbs.

But… something was missing.

"You're supposed to record the breast cancer PSA tomorrow." Nev reminded her, rapidly scrolling through the small electronic device. "I could push that to next week."

"Absolutely not." She objected, turning her eyes from the photos toward her assistant. "I wanna do that as soon as possible—it's really important. It's going to help a lot of people."

"Right. You want to help people. Let's see what else I can move…" Nev said, his thumbs continuing to fly over the tiny keyboard on his digital planner.

Something in Nev's understated response gave Cordelia the feeling that he was merely yessing her to death—as if helping people wasn't something she normally did. But, it _felt_ like something she did. It felt like something she wanted to do, in any case.

"Hey, Nev." She said, pushing herself out of the chair and gesturing to one of the many framed photos decorating the room. "Why are all these photos of me alone? Why aren't there any photos with my friends? Or a boyfriend maybe?"

That caused Nev to stop his rapid thumb-typing; he looked curiously up at the photos she was referring to as if he'd never noticed them before. "I'm terribly sorry, Ms. Chase." He apologized, dialing his phone rapidly and holding it up to his ear. "I'll have them replaced immediately—Josh! Replace all the photos in Ms. Chase's dressing room. We'll need to find her some friends, preferably male… of course, they should be A-listers, what kind of question is that?"

Cordelia moved away from the wall collage, and began inspecting the other personal items adorning her dressing room. For some reason, none of the items felt particularly personal. She reflexively placed a hand to her neck, expecting to find a necklace dangling there; all she found was bare skin. That definitely felt odd. Crossing to the countertop, she began to sift through her jewelry box, searching for her favorite necklace—the one she wore everyday. The velvet-lined compartments were full of amazing looking pieces, covered in gemstones. Everything shimmered and sparkled, real as real could be. But none of them seemed right.

Something was definitely missing.

"Nev." She called her assistant's name again, interrupting whatever he'd been relaying to the person on the other end of his phone. "I'm forgetting something, aren't I? Something important."

Nev shook his head adamantly. "No. I assure you, Ms. Chase—it's my job to see that you don't forget anything. And I am _very_ good at my job."

"I'm sure you are." She said absently, still not entirely convinced that Nev was right. His words, however, echoed in her ears, taking on a new meaning. She was good at her job, too—she must be, if she had two Emmys. Why then did she feel so… unsatisfied? "I think I need to go for a walk."

"A walk?" Nev asked aghast, his eyes following her with a hint of panic as she moved past him toward the door. "Should I call your bodyguard? And the paparazzi? How far will we be walking?"

"Not we. _Me_." She corrected him, holding up a hand to stop the high-strung man in his tracks. Spotting a pair of shades sitting on a nearby shelf, she grabbed them and popped them onto the bridge of her nose. "No guards, no photographers. And you… can take the rest of the afternoon off."

" _Off_?" Nev repeated, as if it was the most foreign-sounding word he could have uttered.

She winked at him from behind the shades and then pushed out into the hall and immediately had people calling her name left and right.

Mechanically smiling and waving, Cordelia kept her head down as she marched rapidly toward the rear exit. There she discovered a row of small golf carts with one bored security guard. He leapt to full attention the moment he saw her. "Uh… _the_ Cordelia Chase! Wow. Um… can I—can I help you with something?"

Flashing her signature pearly whites, she pointed toward one of the empty carts. "Mind if I borrow one?"

* * *

The old run-down building loomed before her, ominous and foreboding. Nothing about this place seemed at all inviting, yet Cordelia had been drawn there, like a magnet.

The Hyperion Hotel.

It was an old Hollywood landmark. Strange-looking… and yet oddly familiar, as if she knew it well. But, knowing this place would be impossible for someone as young as she, since it had been shut down for decades. Even so, she couldn't shake the feeling that the hotel was meaningful to her in some way. Like a faded memory of a past life.

Despite the unwelcoming look of the place, she tried the front gate and found it unlocked. The front courtyard, although terribly overgrown, had an almost fairytale quality to it, with thick moss threaded through the cobblestones and a charming, but moldy, fountain in the center. She imagined it would be quite beautiful if it was given proper care.

Up ahead she could see the glaring yellow flash of caution tape strung up across the front door—a sign that something deadly had occurred there in recent history. That should have given her pause. It should have made her turn around and head in the opposite direction, wary of what lay on the other side of the busted front door. Her feet however, wouldn't cease their forward motion. One in front of the other she continued to be propelled toward the entrance, fully intending to pull the tape away and enter the premises—

Just then, a shadowy figure stepped into her path, brandishing a weapon.

"Ahhhhhhh!" She screamed and took a giant leap back, bumping into a second person, much larger than the first. She yelped again, jumping forward to stand between the two threatening figures. It was this dire moment that she regretted leaving her bodyguard behind.

"Cordelia?" The first figure asked in the Received Pronunciation most commonly found in the south of England. The person stepped into the light, and she recognized the scruffy face behind the pair of cockeyed spectacles.

Her hand was pressed against her chest in a frozen moment of panic, but upon seeing the man's face, she finally allowed herself to breathe. "Wesley?"

It had been years since she'd last seen Wesley Windham-Pryce. And those years hadn't exactly been kind to the former-Watcher. In addition to the scruffy beard and several visible scars, there was something else that had changed since back in the day. "What are you doing here—and what happened to your other arm?!"

"Rude." A voice grunted from the large, unidentified individual standing to her left—she whipped her head of soft curls toward that man, but his face wasn't one she recognized. He arched a brow at her in a silent challenge. "That's a sensitive topic for English—you should really work up to it."

"Do I know you?" She demanded, although she was fairly certain the answer was no.

"Cordelia—it's been a long time." Wesley's voice brought her head back around to face the Englishman. "What are you doing here?"

"I asked you first." She countered.

"We have business here." Wesley answered calmly, and then gestured to the man across from him. "This is Charles Gunn, my associate."

"Man, Wes told me he knew you, but I didn't believe him." Gunn said, his grumpy look giving way to one that was slightly more enthusiastic. "You still dating that dude from Baywatch?"

Cordelia scrunched her face in disapproval as she conjured up the image of a muscle-clad beach bum in red shorts. "Ugh, too tan." Cordelia answered without really thinking.

"I get it." Gunn continued, addressing Wesley as if he'd finally put pieces of an old puzzle together. "You're the cheerleader who dated Angel."

"No, that would be Buffy. The slayer." Wesley corrected. "Cordelia here was just a cheerleader."

Cordelia scowled at Wesley before her eyes pogoed back to Gunn. "I was never _just_ a cheerleader—I was also Queen of the Winter Ball and—wait, back up a sec. How do you know Angel?"

"He's here." Wesley answered.

"Here in L.A.?" Cordelia asked with surprise—then, something triggered in her brain. Yes, of course, Angel was in L.A. She hadn't seen him in ages, but she'd been told he was around.

"Here… in this hotel." Wesley corrected, looking hesitant to tell her that part.

"I wanna see him." She breathed, feeling a flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach, although she had no idea why seeing Buffy's ex-boyfriend would matter so much to her all of the sudden. Her short-lived crush on Mr. Tall, Dark and Broody had been over long before he'd nearly twisted Ms. Calendar's head off her body, and they'd never been what Cordelia would have considered _friends_.

Wesley and Gunn exchanged a loaded gaze, before Wesley turned back to Cordelia. "Angel's… not quite how you remember him."

* * *

Standing at Doyle's side, Angel gaped down at the unsettling object his best friend had just placed on the small table in the center of the room. Cordelia still lay in her unresponsive state in the bed behind them—there had been no change to her condition. And as each minute ticked by, turning into hours, they all knew it was becoming less and less likely that Cordelia would ever awaken of her own accord.

As usual, Angel felt responsible. His friends—particularly Doyle and Cordelia—were in jeopardy because of their loyalty to him. They never walked away from the mission and continued to pay the price for it. Doyle could blame himself all he wanted, but the truth was, the half-demon would've never had to transfer his visions to Cordelia, if she hadn't been targeted in the first place. And she would've never been targeted, if not for her allegiance to Angel.

Now Angel had to stand by and watch as the man he considered a brother went down a dangerous and possibly deadly rabbit hole, in order to clean up the mess that Angel had been unable to clean.

Champion or not, Angel was powerless. And Doyle refused to be so.

"Orpheus?" The question in Angel's voice had nothing to do with the identity of the mystical substance, which he'd recognized immediately. It was a powerful drug, long used in the supernatural world. He'd never tried it himself, but Angel knew the drill. Humans would inject themselves with the drug and allow vampires to feed—both parties would then share in the euphoric results. The experience was said to be unlike anything that could be achieved through simple chemicals—it was magical in nature; capable of taking the user's consciousness into another state of being.

Sometimes never to return.

"Oh, no." Lorne argued, stepping out of the crowd of gawkers who'd gathered, which also included Wesley, Gunn, Fred, and a sleeping Connor. "No, you can't be seriously considering this. That stuff is _bad_ news—I banned it from my club for a reason."

"It's the only way I can get to her." Doyle reasoned, his tone indicated that his mind was already made up and this conversation was merely a formality.

"If it doesn't kill you first!" Lorne shot back. "To get to the Astral Plane you're gonna need every last drop of what's there—you won't come back from that, little buddy."

"Then I won't come back." Doyle retorted, his face a mask of calm.

"That's some serious Romeo and Juliet shit right there." Gunn muttered under his breath to Fred, who was standing beside him, a look of horror visible on her own face. She anxiously bobbed the small, sleeping infant in her arms.

Although Angel didn't react externally, he wasn't as calm and accepting as Doyle so clearly was. It was Wesley who spoke next; attempting to debate Doyle's proposed rescue mission in a slightly more diplomatic manner. "Isn't a vampire bite required to trigger the drug?"

"In humans, yeah." Doyle answered. His hands were shoved into his jacket pockets and he stood straight and confident, as if he was the one in charge—in this instance, he was. "It works different on demons."

"It's more potent for those with supernatural blood." Angel supplied the information the others, save Lorne, wouldn't know. He eyed the large dose of Orpheus that had been siphoned into the syringe on the table. It was too much. Anyone could see that, including Doyle. "Lorne's right—you can't do this, Doyle. It's suicide. And there's no guarantee it'll even work—you might not be able to find her, wherever she is."

Doyle's jaw tightened ever-so-slightly, the first sign that he wasn't nearly as calm as he purported to be. "I'll find her."

"How?" Gunn asked bluntly. "I mean, it's one thing for a human and vampire to share some blood and get all trippy together, but you ain't a vamp. You can't feed off Cordy."

There was a long, weighty pause as Gunn's statement hung over the room. Lorne averted his eyes in a way that indicated he had an answer, but was choosing not to disclose it. He had no intention of enabling Doyle's recklessness in any way.

"They're already connected." It was Fred's small voice that squeaked out, earning her Doyle's silent thanks. She gave him the trace of a smile, the only one amongst them to encourage him on his reckless, but noble, path. "Twisted wires."

"Trust me." Doyle said, turning his eyes from Fred to Angel. Those were the magic words he always used when he knew something no one else knew. But Angel knew damn well that Doyle had no special knowledge about this moment. This had never happened—never _could_ have happened. Because Doyle had never been there to do it.

"I can't lose both of you." Angel admitted, his voice low, weighed down by fear. Losing Cordelia was one thing, something he could barely imagine—but losing her and Doyle in one fell swoop—

"You won't." Doyle insisted, but it wasn't his own safe return he was promising. "I'll find 'er and I'll bring her back."

"You don't know that you can." Angel replied, but all the fight had gone out of him and his objections were laden with subtext. This might be goodbye, but he couldn't say goodbye—he couldn't let himself believe this would be the last time he talked to his best friend.

He also couldn't stop him.

Doyle reached out and placed his hand on Angel's shoulder. A smile of acceptance flickered across his lips, mirrored in his eyes as well. "I don't have to know, bud. Not this time."

Angel placed his own hand over Doyle's and bowed his head once, signaling that he'd make no further objections. He'd sit and watch and wait.

And, demon or not, he just might pray.

* * *

 **A/N - You know how much I hate interrupting chapter flow, especially after a chapter like THAT (Orpheus! Oh my!) but I am a sucker for time-travel-related questions. Causality is an aspect of this story that I have pondered at length. Paradoxes haven't really been an issue until now, but generally speaking, all time travel stories have a paradoxical element. Anyway, this is my obsession, probably not yours and certainly not Cordelia's...**

 **Simple answer: I think Cordelia assumed the deal would be a butterfly effect scenario. If she was never there to start Angel Investigations with Angel and Doyle, then EVERYTHING would have been different, just as everything seems different to her with Doyle IN the picture (keep in mind, she has no memory of the original TV show timeline; so she doesn't know about the many similarities, only the HUGE difference of having Doyle in her life).**

 **A more complex answer: I don't think she considered that her timeline could actually be a loop. That by changing her own path, she was also potentially changing her future self's path from the other timeline which doesn't even exist anymore (see, paradox!). All that is A LOT to unravel even for someone who has the time to ponder it. Cordy didn't have that luxury. S** **he was being told she could either die right away or *try* for a new scenario that hadn't played out yet; she chose to try. Not to mention, it was only after Skip insinuated that she and Doyle could still live happily ever after that Cordelia finally took the bait... I mean, deal.**

 **Did all that timey-wimey mumbo jumbo make sense? Even if it doesn't, do you see why Cordy wouldn't have thought of all this in the spur of the moment? And, most importantly, is it buyable enough to keep you in the story? ;)**


	31. Birthday, Part 4

**31\. Birthday, Part IV**

Room 312—empty aside from a thin mattress in the corner and a pair of iron shackles drilled into the wall. They were a necessity, according to Wesley.

Angel couldn't be trusted these days—he had been driven to madness. Huddled in a ball in the corner of the dark room; his days and nights spent muttering to himself, reliving past sins as if they were happening all over again. And in between his visions of the past, came visions of the future—the only reason he was still alive. He would have walked himself straight into the sun ages ago, and Wesley probably would have let him, if it weren't for the people they could still save. The people in those visions.

As it was, the chains kept Angel from hurting himself or others. But, as far as Cordelia could see, Angel's entire existence was pain and torment.

"Oh, God." Cordelia uttered, as she lifted her hand to her mouth, letting her eyes trail over the strange sketches Angel had scribbled on the walls around him. Most of it looked to be written in blood.

Names. Addresses. None of it complete. None of it made any sense.

"I warned you, Cordelia." Wesley said gently from behind her. "The visions have taken their toll—and the isolation. I'm not sure there's anything left of the Angel you once knew."

"No… this isn't right." She whispered, staring at the broken creature at her feet. "Something's missing."

"A lot's missing." Gunn agreed, from where he leaned in the doorway. He lifted an index finger, tapping the side of his head. "Like, the whole damn bag of marbles."

Then it clicked. Some _thing_ wasn't missing. " _Someone_ is missing." Cordelia corrected herself, and she knew she was right. Her voice grew louder and more urgent the more justified she felt. "Angel shouldn't be alone."

"Gunn and I are the only people who ever see him." Wesley clarified. "I doubt anyone else even knows he's here—which is really for the best. Considering."

"Most folks think he died in that explosion a few years back." Gunn added offhandedly.

"What explosion?" Cordelia asked curiously, her eyes volleying from Gunn to Wesley, waiting for an answer that would make sense. Thus far, nothing here did. "You're not talking about the high school, are you?"

"It was an office building downtown—Angel lived and worked there for a time." Wesley explained. "That's where I found him initially; shuttering the detective business he'd started with his friend, Doyle."

"Doyle." Cordelia repeated the name, rolling it around on her tongue. "I know that name… How do I know it?"

"I believe he lived in L.A. for a number of years." Wesley answered helpfully. "Perhaps you two crossed paths at some point."

"I… can't remember." Cordelia frowned, as she tried desperately to connect the dots. There was a definite impression attached to the name, but for the life of her, no specific person was springing to mind. "Did you ever have one of those days when everything feels… wrong? Like reverse déjà vu or something."

"Think that's called a hangover." Gunn snarked.

"It's probably this place." Wesley guessed, reaching out a hand to usher Cordelia from the dingy hotel room. "It used to be inhabited by a very powerful paranoia demon—let's get you outside, into the sun."

"No, I don't wanna leave." She objected, shrugging out of Wesley's grasp and pacing to the far end of the room. The name "Doyle" was still pinballing around her mind, never finding its proper landing place.

It was really starting to freak her out.

And then it hit her, just why the name was affecting her the way that it was. The problem wasn't in her mind at all. It was in her stomach and chest and bones. No… it was in her _heart_.

She had feelings for him. This man she had no memory of, and likely had never met. He mattered to her on some primal level.

"Doyle's important." She said aloud, surprised by how right it felt to say those words. How saying them made everything click into place, even if she couldn't rationalize the feeling of rightness. She appealed to the two men in the room who were capable of coherent speech, her eyes lighting up with purpose. "Where is he? I need to find him."

There was a longer than natural pause as both Wesley and Gunn stared back at her, each set of eyes telling a very different story. Gunn clearly thought she was crazy, and did little to mask his expression. While Wesley's face took on a sheen of sympathy, followed by an obvious reluctance to answer her question. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Cordelia… Doyle is dead."

"What?!" She croaked, feeling the air go out of her lungs as if she'd been punched.

"He died over two years ago." Wesley explained, his voice laden with apologies. "That's how Angel came to have the visions—they originally belonged to Doyle; he somehow managed to pass them along before his death."

"No, that's definitely not right." She argued, a feeling of panic seizing her as she tried to work through a deluge of inexplicable grief. She'd always trusted her gut in the past, but right now it wasn't making any sense. It was telling her she loved someone she had never met; it was telling her to ache over his loss. "How can he be dead and I wouldn't even know?"

"You thinking of an old fling of yours or something?" Gunn wondered through narrowed eyes. "'Cause, y'know, the Doyle we're talking about was a demon. Not really your type."

A demon. Doyle was a demon. That should definitely make her freak out, because she, Cordelia Chase, would never have loved a demon. And she sure as hell would never stand in the broken down remains of some weird old hotel with Buffy's ex-boyfriend chained to a wall and an armless ex-Watcher telling her about things that shouldn't have happened.

Was it all a dream? Was she really still back in her dressing room, having dozed off?

Her fingers involuntarily reached up to touch her empty neck—reminding her of the necklace that wasn't there. No, this wasn't a dream. It was something else entirely. Which meant she had to fight it—she had to remember…

"All of this is wrong!" She insisted, not caring how many strange looks Wesley and Gunn sent in her direction. "I bet it's like that time back in Sunnydale when I wished the whole world into bizarro-land, not that I remember any of that." The two men were still staring at her blankly as if she had started speaking in tongues. "Never mind, the point is, everything is wrong here and I know why… it's because of Doyle. I was supposed to save him!" She started to pace frantically as the pieces of a very fuzzy puzzle were starting to come into slightly clearer focus. "I think it has something to do with time travel…"

Gunn turned to Wesley with a skeptical look etched across his face. "This girl's as cracked as Angel."

Wesley nodded, his wary eyes never leaving the frenzied brunette. "Sunnydale was a very difficult place to grow up."

* * *

Doyle situated himself on the bed beside Cordelia's prone form. His jacket had been placed aside, his sleeve rolled up above his elbow in preparation for the next step. He cheated one last glance at the face of his best friend, unsure what he'd see reflected back at him.

Angel, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets, was a beacon of silent resignation. No matter what the outcome, he'd be there. Meanwhile, Lorne, who was much less resigned and far more unwilling to watch whatever came next, had taken the baby and left the room. Wesley, too, had retreated, but only so he could do further research on Orpheus, and perhaps, find a way to reverse its effects should Doyle be pulled too deep. Gunn and Fred had remained behind with Angel, and surprisingly, in their eyes Doyle found only support. They wanted him to do it—they wanted him to win this battle.

They wanted him to bring Cordelia home.

His hands were surprisingly steady as he gave one final nod to the three remaining occupants of the room and turned his eyes onto the woman he loved. His hand slid into hers, grasping tightly. He focused on the warmth of her fingers threaded through his own, he focused on her chest lightly rising and falling, he focused on the smooth olive skin of her face… and then he let the Orpheus take him away.

The effects of the mystical substance were almost instantaneous. The physical world drifted away and Doyle felt as if the bed beneath him had become a portal, sucking him down into the underworld. He let himself go. Deeper and deeper he fell—a hazy energy swirling around him, disorienting him. He could no longer tell up from down, nor could he tell if up and down even existed in this place. He lost feeling in his body, and guessed that he no longer had a body to feel.

He felt warm at first, and then cold. And then nothing at all.

And then he opened his eyes.

Lifting his chin, he gazed up at the cavernous room made of metal and tile. The whole place was dark, but not so dark that he couldn't see his vast surroundings. There was a dull glow that gave the place a distinctive "after-hours" feel.

How long had he been here? In this… shopping mall?

Doyle wondered how he'd come to be in this place. And why he was alone, for that matter. Checking his clothes, making sure he hadn't taken on a new career as mall cop, he was relieved to find his ragged old corduroys, a red button down and his trusty brown leather jacket. Definitely not mall cop attire.

A bandit maybe? But probably not.

He began shuffling through the wide empty space, searching for a clue. Glistening floor tiles and empty storefronts spanned as far as his eye could see; up ahead an immobile escalator promised more of the same another level up.

And then it all came rushing back, the moment he saw her face.

 _Cordelia._

A screen in front of him had come alive—one of those advertising kiosks in the center of the otherwise sleeping shopping center. There, playing over and over on a digital loop, was the moment that had changed the course of history. Playing forward and then rewinding back.

Doyle and Cordelia on the _Quintessa_. A first kiss. A last kiss.

Although, the moment wasn't exactly the way Doyle remembered it. The Cordelia on the pixilated screen wasn't the curly haired heroine who'd traveled through time to save his life. Rather, it was the slightly younger face of _his_ Cordelia, her hair swept back in a ponytail, her eyes filled with shock.

He wasn't watching what had happened in his timeline—he was watching what would have happened in the other one. He was seeing the road not taken.

Whatever this place was, it likely existed outside of time. Perhaps, it existed in all times. Which meant...

Someone, some _thing,_ very powerful had brought Cordelia here.

* * *

Standing on the empty pier, Cordelia glowered at the unimpressive vessel docked in front of her.

The _Quintessa_ felt vaguely familiar, which was odd considering she'd never been on a boat that wasn't a yacht or a cruise ship. And this was anything but.

Wesley had supplied her with the name of the cargo ship and told her where she might find it, although he'd been quite perplexed as to what good it would do after all this time. Doyle had been dead for more than two years, surely there couldn't be anything left behind on that boat that would change the current situation. Nevertheless, Wesley had chivalrously offered to accompany her to the docks, if she insisted on going at this late hour. If only she hadn't stubbornly refused his offer.

For some inexplicable reason, Cordelia had felt the immediate need to go to this place, and to do so _alone_. As if the entire future somehow rested on her shoulders.

Maybe Gunn had been right—maybe she'd lost her mind and was the last one to find out.

Or maybe...

Forcing her feet to keep moving, her eyes darted around, keeping an eye out for members of the crew who may hassle her or turn her away, but the docks were eerily abandoned this evening. The only sound was the continuous lapping of the water and light creaking of the boats docked nearby. The _Quintessa_ herself barely moved, such was the size of her—she seemed more like a land structure than something remotely seaworthy. Pausing briefly at the gangplank, Cordelia took a deep, reaffirming breath.

"Here goes nothing." She muttered to herself.

If anyone tried to stop her, she'd just flash her million-dollar smile and offer them an autograph. That always seemed to work.

Once aboard the ship, Cordelia was presented with more emptiness. As unnerving as it was, the adrenaline started to take over. She located the stairwell that would lead her below deck and she rushed headlong into the dark, damp depths of the ship.

It took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust, allowing her to delve deeper. The storage area appeared to be packed with crates and boxes, with little winding pathways left open between them. From the walkway above, it almost looked like a maze.

As Cordelia stood, holding onto the railing and squinting her eyes into the darkness below, she wished she'd thought to bring a flashlight. Although some light snuck down from the open ports above, it wasn't enough for her to do a proper investigation of the cluttered space. So much could be hidden in the dense shadows below. Or… nothing could be hidden. The hollow feeling in her chest could be all the _Quintessa_ had to offer.

She should go—there was no point to this. As she turned to head back up the stairs, a shuffle of movement from below caused her to stop dead in her tracks. Her heart began to pound in her chest and her throat went dry.

 _Rats_ , she thought. _Probably rats_.

Nothing she needed to see. She started to move across the metal grating of the platform and that's when it hit her—a fleeting image that felt more like a dream than a memory. She had stood there once before, right in that very spot. Crying. No... kissing. No, wait... both. But was it actually _her_ or some other girl?

Lifting a hand to her confused head, Cordelia whirled back around, making a snap decision not to give up her search—

"Ahhh!" She screamed, as she bounced off the rock hard torso of the very large demon who'd been silently looming behind her.

"You shouldn't be here." The imposing creature scolded her. Skip, the demon's name was Skip. He was the one who'd tampered with her memory; he was the one who'd brought her here. But where was here? And, more importantly, where was she really supposed to be? _Who_ was she really supposed to be? Her mind was doing loop-the-loops, even as Skip continued to growl down at her. "We made a deal—you're supposed to be in Beverly Hills living the high life. Polishing your Emmy. Not skulking around playing ghost-hunter."

"Everything's wrong here!" She blurted, finally understanding why she'd been feeling so out-of-sorts. None of this felt right because it _wasn't_ right. "It's all a lie!"

"Looks right to me, Princess." Skip replied flippantly. "I said you'd be rich and famous. Check and check. But did you even take the time to enjoy your new digs? No—you ran straight back to the hotel to see the vampire."

"Angel." She filled in the vampire's name, feeling the anger broil in her belly even though she still couldn't remember precisely why she should be so angry. "He's alone—and crazy." She wagged her finger in Skip's face as a kernel of their past conversation popped in her mind. "Doyle was supposed to be with him!"

"He was." Skip answered with a disinterested wave of his claw. "They were together, just like they were always meant to be."

"But Doyle _died_!" It was then that Cordelia's voice cracked, letting her emotions leak through. Although Doyle's face was still blurry in her mind, she knew undoubtedly that he'd meant something to her. Her entire body knew it and was prodding her foggy brain to _remember_.

 _Remember the truth. Remember just how important Doyle is. Not just to Angel, but to you_. "I wanna go back, Skip. I need to fix this—it wasn't supposed to be this way!"

"Yeah… I can't really do that." Skip dismissed her with feigned compassion. "There are no take-backs. You were a champion, and you gave that up to be a movie star. Now, you either go back to Beverly Hills and let yourself forget—"

"I don't wanna forget!" She argued, her hands balled tightly into fists.

"…or…" Skip continued, cocking his head down at her. "…there might be another option."

"Cordelia!" A voice shouted from the deck above.

"Doyle!" She instinctively called back, recognizing the voice without knowing how she'd recognized it. She turned away from Skip and shouted up the stairs. "Doyle! I'm here!"

"Great. That's just great." Skip muttered unhappily. "He isn't supposed to be here either. Do you two _ever_ follow the rules?"

"Cordy!" Doyle called again, a little closer than before.

Seconds later he appeared at the top of the stairs—all she could see was a silhouette at first, a head full of fuzzy hair sticking in all directions and a misshapen jacket on an average-sized frame. Cordelia reflexively took a step toward him as he began racing down the steps, the rest of his features coming into view even in the dim light. A prominent nose, a dimpled right cheek and eyes she could drown in. As soon as she saw his face, she wondered how it was possible she'd forgotten it even for a second. She needed no context; she needed no details. There was no question who he was—standing before her was the man she loved.

"Doyle." His name came out as a gasp; she reached for him. "You're alive."

It was Skip's unenthusiastic voice that broke the spell before they could make contact. "Not for long… You _do_ realize I'm gonna have to kill him now."


	32. Birthday, Part 5

**32\. Birthday, Part V**

The large demon lumbered forward, stepping into the path that would have allowed Cordelia and Doyle their happy reunion. He stared down at the much smaller man, who stared back up at him boldly. Doyle's breathing was rapid, probably from all the running he'd done to arrive at that particular time and place… not to mention whatever other mystical calisthenics he had to accomplish to be on this plane of existence in the first place.

"Why couldn't you have just died when you were supposed to?" Skip bellyached as he raised a giant taloned fist in the air. "You've really made my job harder than it needs to be, you know that?"

Doyle darted out of the way of the first swing, much more spry than he readily appeared. "Sorry, pal. I'm a changed man. Dying's not my style." He said cockily. But, Skip swung again, and the second time he connected— _hard_. Doyle was knocked backward, but didn't go down right away. Instead, he changed. His pale green eyes morphed into a deep crimson, his skin turned green, and multiple rows of spikes appeared across his now-demonic face. "Like I said… not my style."

Cordelia's eyes went wide, not expecting the change. Even having recognized Doyle's human face on sight, she'd still managed to _forget_ that he was a demon. This place was still affecting her; this place was still _lying_ to her. She still wasn't the Cordy she was truly meant to be.

"The Powers don't want you! They want _her_." Skip growled. "Don't you get it? You're obsolete!"

"Wait… what?" Cordelia balked, narrowing her eyes at her so-called demon guide. "That's not what you told me. You said the Powers _never_ wanted me!"

"Kinda busy here." Skip retorted. "Can we go over the details after I kill your boyfriend?"

Another blow sent Doyle's somewhat more resilient body spinning around; he face-planted onto the grating with a loud _thwang_. Cordelia cringed at the impact, relieved to see Doyle roll over and push himself back up, his supernatural physiology protecting him from injury.

The relief didn't last long. As Skip's next blow landed, a terrible crunching sound accompanied several quills snapping off the side of Doyle's face; he howled in pain, like a wounded animal.

Cordelia whimpered—feeling his pain as if it were her own. It snapped her into action. Her mind might have been Swiss Cheese, but her body sure as hell wasn't! Even without knowing exactly who she was, she knew she wasn't the type of woman to stand idly by as her man got pummeled to death. She began desperately searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. The only item remotely within reach was a hook and chain hanging from the ceiling, used to levy the cargo into the lower part of the storage bay. She glanced back to the fight, if one could call it that. Doyle—demon or not—was severely outmatched. Skip's fists repeatedly hit their mark, leaving serious damage behind each time.

"All you had to do was stay out of it." The larger of the two demons complained, as he swung again, missing Doyle by the sheerest fraction of an inch. Somehow Doyle was still moving; stumbling backward, one arm wrapped around his body, the other holding his bleeding face. He was being backed into a corner, nowhere to run. "This was basically a done deal—but no, you had to show up and play hero—" Skip paused, his huge fist hovering over Doyle's skull, ready to land a killing blow. "How did you get here, anyway? That shouldn't have been possible."

Using Skip's fleeting moment of distraction to her advantage, Cordelia rushed forward, gripping the chain as if it was a lasso and using it to swing herself across the platform—her feet battered into Skip's undefended backside with enough force to send him stumbling forward, missing his chance to finish Doyle off. Despite the severity of his injuries, Doyle dove forward, tumbling out of the corner he'd been backed into; he scrambled to his feet on the other end of the platform. Taking a fighting stance, he kept the railing at his back.

Cordelia landed on her feet, nimble as ever, and was able to retreat to Doyle's side before Skip could take a swing at her. Skip whirled back around and charged forward like a linebacker. Cordelia instinctively leapt back, clearing herself from the runaway train headed in her general direction—it became very apparent that Skip had never been aiming for her.

Wrapping his tree-trunk arms around Doyle's waist, Skip forcibly tackled his demon opponent over the side of the railing. Both bodies fell, crashing into the crates piled below. The cacophony of the fall was deafening as the crates imploded and the contents shifted and spilled—piles of heavy floor tiles cracked as they hurtled to the floor. The clank of heavy metal reverberated as large tubs of paint were upended and rolled across the ground.

"Doyle!" Cordelia shrieked, her hands wrapping tightly around the railing as she leaned over to peer into the cloudy darkness, trying to see where each of the demons had landed, wondering if Doyle would be in any condition to continue the fight. A plume of dust had floated upward, skewing her already limited view and she couldn't see much. There didn't appear to be any movement at all, save a few pieces of paraphernalia that were still settling. "Doyle!" She shouted again, and then gave up, racing down the stairs, and pushing through the maze of boxes to get to the area where the two demons had fallen.

As she came to the wreckage directly below the platform and heard a muffled cough, she spotted a pair of legs. Skip's legs. The thick white stalks were sticking out from under a mound of granite tiles and as far as Cordelia could tell they weren't moving. That was a minor relief.

Another faint cough. Another set of legs—these were attached to a body. A now human body, which was much more fragile. Much more mortal.

"Doyle!" She cried, rushing to his side, and reaching out to investigate the extent of his injuries, which were hidden by a thick layer of dust. She knew he was in bad shape—she'd seen how battered his demon face was even before he'd gone over the railing. And now she could see far worse—the unnatural angle of his legs, the shard of wood jutting through his abdomen, and the shallow wheezing breaths that accompanied it. "Oh God... oh, no." His pale eyes had been closed, but they fluttered open as she gently touched his battered cheek. "Doyle..." She whispered tenderly, not sure if he would be able to answer her. "I'm so sorry. I made a mistake. He tricked me, made me forget everything… but I still remember you."

"That's... good... _cough, cough_." He choked out the reply, and despite the terrible shape he was in, he managed to laugh. The smile in his eyes seemed especially warm and it lit her up from the inside. "Let's… go home now… yeah?"

She felt bad that he was working so hard to talk when it was clearly a struggle for him to do so, but then she wanted to hear more of his voice. It had a soothing, lilting quality, even in its raspy state. "Home." She echoed his words, liking the way they felt on her tongue. "We have a home. You and me."

"That we do, Princess." He promised, gingerly lifting one swollen hand to brush it lightly against her cheek. "A nice one—with a cat. And a ghost."

"It sounds so right when you call me Princess." She smiled, feeling a tear escape from the corner of her eye. She wanted to hear him say it again, over and over, but she could tell he was fading fast. The odds of him surviving his injuries were slim to none. A sob escaped her throat then, and the tears started to fall harder as she dropped her head toward his body. "I was trying to save you."

"You still can." He assured her. His voice was very low now, nearly drowned out by the heavy wheezing emanating from his chest.

She lifted her teary eyes, and panned them over his body, knowing that she couldn't give him the kind of medical attention he needed. She wasn't even sure if she could run outside and call 911 in time, and the last thing she wanted to do was leave him there to die alone. She couldn't do that. Her hand slipped into his, holding it tight. "How?" She asked in a strained voice. "Tell me what to do."

"The visions." He pleaded as he stared up at her, his eyes sparkling brilliantly even in the low light. "I need 'em back."

"I don't—I don't have them anymore." She answered woefully, wiping away some of the tears and smearing her mascara in the process. "Skip took them away... I'm just an actress now."

"No, Cordy. Focus—" He winced first from the pain and then gasped through his failing lungs. "No one can take your visions unless ya give 'em willingly." He sucked in squeaky breaths between each of his words. "I know ya wouldn't do that …not unless you were giving 'em back to me. So, please—do it now… _cough_ … 'fore it's too late."

He tried to breathe in again, but she saw that he was having trouble and she clenched his hand in between her own. "I don't know how!" She cried, another deluge of tears slipping from her eyes as she realized she was losing him. "I can't remember, Doyle, please…"

"Love me?" He wheezed, his eyelids starting to droop.

"I do. I love you!" She promised, leaning closer to him and letting her tears drop down on his face. She saw the smallest trace of a smile on his lips, and he opened them again, but no more words came. Instead, he released a long, slow rattle from the base of his throat. "Doyle? Don't go." She begged, even though she knew he wouldn't be taking another breath. "I love you." She repeated as she hovered over his slightly parted lips. "Please don't leave."

As if drawn magnetically, she kissed him. Silently wishing she could breathe life back into his broken body. Wishing she had the ability to save him with the power of her love alone. Wishing she could have changed his awful fate—death in the belly of the _Quintessa_.

And then something truly miraculous happened. She felt him kiss her back.

His lips moved beneath hers, his tongue came to life, dancing in and out of her mouth in a slow, sensual rhythm. His hands slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head so tenderly. And she slowly realized, she was no longer lying on top of his broken body, in a musty storage bay. Beneath them was a bed, and the scent that enveloped them was one she'd know in a heartbeat—the Hyperion Hotel.

Cordelia let her eyes flutter open as the kiss ended, and she was greeted by Doyle's smiling face, unmarked by a battle he had never physically fought. And then she knew that she was back in the real world—the one where she belonged. "Did I save you or did you save me?" She wondered, eagerly sliding her arms around his body, unwilling to let him go even though she knew they were both alive and would stay that way.

"I think we saved each other." He told her, kissing her once again. Soft and sweet. He pulled back and began to sit up, and she did the same, now realizing that they weren't alone. They had a room full of enthusiastic onlookers.

Cordelia took in all the relieved faces, particularly that of Angel, who looked more emotional than she could ever remember seeing him. "Whoa!" Cordelia exclaimed, as Fred's arms were unexpectedly thrown around her. The slender woman squeezed tightly, with a surprising amount of strength.

"We're so happy you're alright!" Fred enthused. "I knew you guys could do it."

"I'm happy, too." Cordelia assured the other brunette, peering over her shoulder at Wesley and Gunn, who looked like they wouldn't mind getting in on the hug action themselves. Cordelia rolled her eyes and gestured for the two of them to join in and pretty soon Gunn's muscular arms and Wesley's lanky ones were added to the pile. "Okay, yeah, that's real nice guys. But, y'know what else is nice? Breathing."

Meanwhile, Angel had crossed the room and placed a hand on Doyle's shoulder as if he hadn't seen his friend in ages. A loaded moment passed between the two men and it almost looked as if they were going to hug, but then Doyle cried out, putting a rather abrupt halt to the celebratory mood.

Cordelia untangled herself from the dog-pile of welcome-back hugs, rushing to Doyle's aid, but Angel was already there—bracing the half-demon so he wouldn't fall over. The heels of Doyle's hands were planted over his eyes as he groaned in pain for several more seconds. When he finally removed his hands from his eyes, they were red-rimmed and teary, but lucid.

"Glendale—demon attack. I saw a pond in the background." He recalled, lightly massaging his left temple. "Thing had five horns—what's a fella need with five horns exactly? I'm thinking four woulda sufficed."

"You had a vision!" Fred noticed happily. "And Cordelia didn't! Everything's all fixed!"

"Almost everything." Doyle corrected, still rubbing at his aching head. "There's still the matter of the guy in Glendale, yeah?"

"Right, yes. We should get to work. I'll start researching five-horned demons." Wesley stated, clapping his hands and rubbing them together as he turned and headed out the door. Gunn dutifully followed on the Englishman's heels, with Fred chiming in as she exited behind Gunn. "I can geo-locate all the significant bodies of water in Glendale. Hopefully, we can narrow things down…"

Angel sauntered behind the others, hands in pockets, tossing one final satisfied smirk in Doyle and Cordelia's direction before he left them alone to collect themselves.

Cordelia stared at the man beside her with a mixed bag of emotions. "Did we just defy the Powers That Be or…?"

"I really don't know." Doyle admitted, reaching out to grasp her by the hand. "Felt more like setting things right, yeah?"

"I guess." Cordelia agreed halfheartedly, her shoulders slumping with fatigue. "Have I ever mentioned how much I _hate_ days when we almost die?"

Silently moving toward her, Doyle sensed that what she needed couldn't come from words. He wrapped his arms around her instead and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. She hugged him close, relishing in the warmth and safety she always found in his arms, relieved to have won a battle she hadn't even known they'd been fighting.

"C'mon, darlin'." He said softly, ending their embrace, and slinging his arm around her shoulders as he led her toward the doorway. "Sooner we save this other guy, sooner you can open your presents."

* * *

" _Happy Birthday, dear Cordy. Happy Birthday to you_!"

From her place on the couch, Cordelia giggled as Doyle sang to her. He had made his way across the living room balancing a purple cupcake with a lit birthday candle on a small plate. As he finished the song, he placed the plate down on the coffee table in front of her, and she immediately leaned over to blow it out leaving a wisp of smoke behind.

"Not sure about the flavor—it was all they had left at this hour." He said apologetically. "Smells kinda fruity."

Pulling her sweatpants-covered knees up under her chin, Cordelia patted the empty couch cushion at her side, indicating that Doyle should fill it. "It's perfect. Thank you."

Doyle frowned as he followed her silent instruction, pausing only to lift Clover onto his lap as he settled onto the couch beside his girlfriend. "I'd say this night's been anything but perfect, love." He lamented, and she couldn't help but smile at the small pout that had settled onto his lips. "The cake was ruined and ya spent most o' your party in a coma."

"At least I woke up in time for presents." She reminded him. "And I'll never have to suffer through another mega-migraine ever again—as birthdays go, it could've been worse. Just ask Buffy."

"Guess there's always next year." He reasoned, sitting back and resting his arm across the top of the sofa.

"Why wait?" She teased, snuggling against his side and reaching over to scratch Clover behind the ears. "It's still my birthday right now. Spoil away."

He moved his arm more securely around her shoulders as he peered over at his watch. "Ah, nope. Sorry, it's past midnight." He announced, causing her head to jolt upward. That's when she felt his chest vibrating with his light laughter. "Lucky for you, I can bend the space-time continuum to my will—but it only works right here in our apartment."

"So, what time is it in here?" She laughed in reply.

"I'd say... ten-ish. Give or take." Doyle responded, motioning back and forth with his free hand.

"Plenty of time for me to get everything I wanted for my birthday." She agreed, pointing toward her recently extinguished birthday candle. "Starting with my wish."

"Ah, Princess..." Doyle objected. "I dunno if it works that way, yeah? If ya tell me, it might not come true."

"Oh, I think it will." She corrected him, wriggling out of his hold and stretching herself out across the couch so her feet landed in his lap, disrupting the sleepy cat who'd been lounging there. "I wished for a foot rub."

"Hmmm." He considered the naked toes wiggling in his lap, as Clover crawled up Cordelia's long legs and resituated herself on the only available lap. "Kinda modest as wishes go. Thought ya were more imaginative than that."

"Less talking, more massaging, buddy." She instructed, waving her index finger at his hands, which slowly began kneading the balls of her feet. "Ah, that's good." She closed her eyes and rested her head on the arm of the sofa, enjoying the feel of Doyle's skilled fingers on her flesh and Clover's gentle purring on her belly. "I've had my fill of extravagant wishes that'll never come true—and even worse, the ones that do... besides, I have everything I want right here."


	33. Provider

**33\. Provider**

Doyle blinked repeatedly as he maneuvered his way through the overcrowded Hyperion lobby. The place was crawling with prospective clients, human and demon alike. Many of which, didn't look like they should be mixing. His brow creased with worry as he eyed a particularly rowdy bunch of Siktar demons in the corner.

Despite the desperate need for new business, this seemed more like a recipe for disaster.

Crossing to the front counter, Doyle placed his elbows on the flat surface, waiting for Cordelia to finish up a phone call. She feverishly scribbled notes on a clipboard as she grunted several "uh huhs" into the receiver and shot a haggard glance in Doyle's direction. "What's that you say? Bunions from hell getting you down? ...Oh, _minions_. Yeah, that makes much more sense."

He chuckled at his girlfriend's beleaguered expression, observing that nearly every other line had a blinking light, indicating that some poor soul was waiting on the other end. Glancing over his shoulder to see what the other members of the Angel Investigation team were doing, he spotted Lorne chatting with a rather regal group of demons in long, velvet robes. The language they spoke was nothing Doyle had ever heard before, and from the snippets of abstract clicking and popping he could overhear, as well as Lorne's frazzled expression, it didn't seem like he had a complete grasp of the language himself.

Standing a few feet to Doyle's right, wearing a distracted smile on his face, was Gunn—he didn't look like he was as unnerved by all the chaos as Doyle was. And as Doyle's eyes traveled to the other man's point of interest, he saw why. Fred was standing there, rocking baby Connor in her arms. Quite a vision for a man who was smitten—and it didn't take any special knowledge on Doyle's part to guess that Charles Gunn was a complete goner. A moment later Fred glanced up, her eyes finding those of her admirer, and the two shared a matching set of smiles.

That was until Wesley blew into frame with his all-business demeanor.

"Gunn." He addressed his employee hurriedly as he offered the other man a clipboard. "Would you take the stalking case? I think it's most suited for your skill set."

With one last lingering look in Fred's direction, Gunn snatched the clipboard and slapped it with enthusiasm. "I aim to protect and serve some whoop ass!" He declared, sauntering away to do his part.

Doyle wouldn't have thought much of Wesley interrupting the moment; barking out instructions wasn't exactly unusual for a man who relished being an authority figure. But as soon as Gunn had gone, Wesley's blue, bespectacled eyes began to moon over Fred and the baby. When the tiny brunette glanced up again, her smile wavered, dimming and then brightening again. It stood to reason that she had expected to see someone other than Wesley looking back. Yet, nonetheless, another smile was shared.

Two nearly identical moments with two very different chemistries. Doyle wondered if he and Cordelia were that obvious back in the early days. Granted, they generally substituted scathing insults and flirty banter for the dreamy smiles. Maybe that made it even _more_ obvious.

"Whew! I never thought I'd say this, but when it comes to business, there _is_ such a thing as too much booming." Cordelia's voice snapped Doyle back to the present. He turned his attention back to his girlfriend who was now hanging up the phone receiver. "Now would be a supremely bad time to have a vision, just fyi."

"Not a body to spare, huh?" Doyle observed with concern. He looked over his shoulder, circling his index in the air to indicate the noisy crowd around them. "I should probably have a li'l chat with Angel 'bout all this—not that I object to him saving up for Connor's future, but we've still gotta be able to help the hopeless and all that."

Her head bobbed up in agreement. "Yeah, remember the days when we were lucky to find even one client and then had to twist Angel's arm to charge her?"

"The good ol' days." Doyle said wistfully. "Although, you were always goin' on about how ya needed a raise." He switched into a higher pitched voice, doing his best impression of her. " _I have needs, Doyle_."

"I have _never_ sounded like that." She objected, leaning over to playfully poke him in the shoulder, before going back to her paperwork. "Anyway… that's when money was more important to me than helping people." She tapped her clipboard on the side of the counter, as she prepared to answer the next call. "I'm a changed woman."

"Uh huh." He replied, admiring the way she moved behind the counter. He always did like watching her work. Or watching her do just about anything. "I never did think ya needed much in the way of clothing, yeah?"

"You are definitely not a changed man." Cordelia answered with a playful cluck of her teeth. "And too bad the old me isn't here to point out the injustice of our current working arrangement—it's not like any of this extra money we're bringing in is gonna benefit me or you or anyone else who's dutifully sacrificed their bodies and brains and _wardrobes_ for years."

That caused Doyle's brows to arch upward with surprise. "Ya saying we should put the little guy to work? He's not even teething yet."

"Of course, that's not what I'm saying." She huffed, placing her palms down on counter and looking Doyle straight in the eye. "But, where was the shiny new website and thousands of flyers when half my wardrobe got doused in demon blood, huh? Or when I accidentally dyed my hair too dark and desperately needed to fix it?"

Doyle was trying hard not to laugh. It had been a long time since Cordelia had complained about such trivial things, and he hadn't realized how endearing he'd found her little tirades. And how relieved he was to see that, while some things changed, other things stayed the same. Like, his reaction to such a tirade, for example. Deflection, distraction, these were key. "Speaking of your hair—did ya cut it again? Looks nice."

The roll of her eyes told him she wasn't even close to falling for his tactics. "No, Doyle, I didn't cut my hair." She corrected him, fingering the ends of her short bob. "I'm growing it out."

"Is that why you're complaining 'bout the money?" He asked, not understanding why she was so put out by a conversation regarding her hair, which historically speaking, were her favorite kind. "I'm sure Angel'd spare ya a few extra bucks for a haircut."

She glowered at him for an extended beat, silently shooting down his hypothesis and simultaneously debating an admission of the truth, whatever that was. Finally, she dropped her face into her hands. "If you must know..." She mumbled into her palms. "I got the urge to give myself these super short bangs I saw in a magazine." She lifted her head once again, reluctantly giving Doyle a nod of credit for the warning he'd given her so long ago. "And that's when I knew it was time to go in a whole new direction—for the sake of the future."

There was nothing Doyle could do to stop himself from laughing this time. No matter how much more it made her grumble.

"What are you doing here?" Angel's terse voice cut into the jovial moment, as the vampire walked up to the reception counter and stood beside Doyle, looking down at the smaller man with confusion.

"I work here." Doyle answered uncertainly, his eyes darting from Cordelia to Angel and then back again, as if he was missing something. "This a trick question?"

"I thought you were gonna hit the ground on the Holtz thing." Angel reminded him, with little in the way of patience. "We need to figure out what he's up to."

"And suddenly I'm having deja vu." Cordelia interjected from behind the counter. "Heavy on the deja—or is it the vu?"

"Already done, man. Turns out, I was in the right circle for that bit of intel." Doyle admitted reluctantly, keeping his eyes away from his girlfriend, who was bound to disapprove. "Word on Holtz is he killed off his entire Grapplar army—taken to recruiting humans instead."

"Good." Angel said, satisfied with the information Doyle had managed to rummage up. Then his expression changed. "The intel, I mean. Not the human army. That part's bad."

"We agree on that much, at least." Doyle commented.

"So, was this circle around a table with cards and chips?" Cordelia pressed, fluttering her eyelashes rapidly, causing Doyle to let out a deep sigh of resignation. Luckily, he was saved from any further inquisition by the phone, which began ringing off the hook once again. "Angel Investigations, please hold." Cordelia chirped into the receiver, plunking down a button to answer the second ringing line. "Angel Investigations, we help the hopeless." She snapped her fingers at Angel, pointing to the multiple blinking lights.

Removing a clipboard from under his arm and shoving it at Doyle, Angel reached over to pick up one of the lines. Before he pressed the button he nodded toward Doyle. "Can you take care of those guys in the corner?"

Doyle tossed a look over his shoulder at the rough and tumble bikers that Angel was sending him to assist. "Those guys?" He gulped, thinking the only thing he should offer that group of hoodlums was the door.

"They can pay." Angel answered nonchalantly, turning his back on Doyle and plunking his finger down on the blinking phone line. "Angel Investigations, we help the… ah, everyone… Why, yes, we do take American Express!"

* * *

Cordelia turned the baby bottle upside down, letting a few drops of milk dribble onto the inside of her wrist—warm, but not hot. Just the right temperature for a baby to drink. She smiled to herself, proud that she'd gotten such a hang of her surrogate mom role. Warming up bottles, changing diapers. It seemed to come naturally.

She moved out of Angel's tiny kitchenette and into the spacious living area where Doyle was currently seated in one of the armchairs, holding the baby. Cordelia came up short at the sight of the two of them—Connor nestled in Doyle's arms, his rapt attention focused on the man above him who was reciting what sounded like a bedtime story.

"Now Tom Fitzpatrick wasn't the brightest lad. He forgot to bring a spade along—that's like a shovel." He explained to the baby. "Tough to dig for gold without one. So, he ties a red scarf 'round one o' the weeds to mark his place and tells the Leprechaun not to touch it—that was a mistake, yeah? Any sensible fella knows ya can't trust a Leprechaun."

Cordelia couldn't help but laugh as she moved closer to the two of them. "I didn't know Leprechauns were real." She commented, perching herself on the arm of the chair, and continuing to admire the man cuddling the baby from a much closer proximity.

Doyle briefly looked up, giving her a teasing little wink. "It's just a story, love. Figured young Connor here would enjoy it as much as I did when I was a kid."

"Well, how does it end?" She asked, sliding an arm around his shoulders and leaning into him. "Did Tom Fitzpatrick get his gold?"

"Ah… 'fraid not." Doyle replied ruefully. "But, can't say he really deserved it—he was kinda a greedy bastard, that one."

"Nice, Doyle. Teach Angel's kid to swear." She lightly reprimanded, offering the warm bottle, which Doyle took from her hand. "See if he ever trusts us to babysit again."

Doyle chuckled as Connor eagerly clamped down on the tip of the rubber nipple Doyle offered, suckling the milk from the bottle voraciously. "He'd never sell out his Uncle Doyle like that. Would ya, bud?"

"Y'know… this is working out better than I thought." Cordelia noted, letting her head loll against Doyle's, temples touching. She closed her eyes and listened to the soft coos Connor made as he drank his bottle.

"I told ya I wouldn't make ya do all the work." Doyle defended himself, keeping his tone gentle. "Although, we're flipping a coin when it comes to changing time, yeah?"

"I mean, all of it." Cordelia clarified. "Tonight Angel's cleaning out a vamp nest, while Wes and Gunn save some poor girl from a zombie stalker. And thanks to Fred and her enormous brain, we've even branched out into the _very_ lucrative field of demon party entertainment. Although, if you ask me, the puzzle thing sounds kinda lame."

"You're thinking we can handle all the extra cases?" Doyle caught on, not sounding nearly as convinced as she was.

" _That_ … and the baby." She added, squeezing his shoulder and gazing down at the cherubic little face, happily gulping from the bottle. Her words came out almost in a dreamlike trance as she reached down and traced a finger over Connor's fuzzy head. "Maybe we don't have to wait as long as I thought."

"No!" Doyle gulped, and Cordelia's head and body jolted up into a rigid position, thinking he was reacting to what she'd just said. But, even before she realized what was actually happening, Doyle had shoved Connor and the bottle into her arms and morphed into his spikes. "Ahhhhh! Gah!"

He hadn't been reacting to her at all. He may not have even heard her.

Boy, those Powers have always had lousy timing.

Connor was crying, upset by the sudden movement and the disruption of his meal. Cordelia had hopped off the chair, trying to soothe the baby over her shoulder as she watched Doyle writhe in pain. She couldn't assist her boyfriend with the now-screaming infant in her arms; his demon form was all the comfort he was going to get.

When Doyle's body finally went slack, he let out a long, deep breath before muttering, "Uh oh."

"Uh oh?" Cordelia questioned, as she lightly patted Connor on the back, hoping he wouldn't spit up all over her blouse. "No, uh oh. We were doing so good. It was the maybe-we-can-have-it-all moment. There shouldn't be an uh oh!"

"And maybe we _can_ have it all." Doyle responded, rubbing his hands over his face, which had just reverted to his human complexion. He looked up at Cordelia, and she could see the worry glistening in his pale eyes. "But Fred won't have a head if I don't get down to the marina and return the 50K those Nahdrah demons gave us."

"See, I knew the puzzle thing was lame." Cordelia groaned. "Also… uh oh!"

Doyle was already pushing himself out of the chair, hastily searching for his belongings and the briefcase full of cash they'd procured earlier.

"You shouldn't go alone!" Cordelia pointed out, as she watched Doyle retrieve his brown leather jacket from a hook and slide into it. He didn't answer, simply shooting her an _I told you so_ glare. "But, you have to, because a demon fight is no place for a baby and everyone else is busy with money-making jobs that aren't part of the mission—and I'll be sure to pass the 'I told you so' on to Angel."

"Call him. Tell him to meet me there." Doyle instructed, as he grabbed the briefcase and moved toward the front door. "And Wes and Gunn. I doubt these demons are gonna give Fred up without a fight."

"Well, in that case, do you really have to give them back the money?" She wondered, earning her another withering expression from her boyfriend. She responded with an overly bright smile. "Right… goodbye kiss, then?"

In a whirlwind, Doyle obediently rushed back to plant a quick kiss on Cordelia's waiting lips, before hurrying out the front door and disappearing down the hallway.

Cordelia stood alone, bouncing Connor on her hip. The baby had finally stopped crying and was sucking on his fingers as he stared at her curiously. She sighed as she returned his gaze. "Don't tell him I told you this—but your Uncle Doyle, has a _really_ annoying habit of always being right."


	34. Waiting in the Wings, Part 1

**A/N - Y'know? I almost wrote an author's note after the last chapter, because I anticipated the "why does Cordy have to stay home with the baby?" reactions. Yes, sorry, logic dictated that the superhuman should go fight and the non-superhuman should stay behind with the baby. That was just good sense. The** **ACTUAL reason I wrote the babysitting scene was for the cuteness of Cordy/Doyle babysitting *together*, not because I intend to relegate Cordelia to a stay-at-home-mom for the remainder of her days.**

 **As for character traits, I've purposely tried not to change anything that was canonically depicted on the show. For example, Cordy can't cook, she can't sing and she's always had a very unique filing system that has nothing to do with the alphabet. That's all canon. It's also canon that she's naturally athletic, has more self-confidence in her pinkie finger than most people ever have and is very loving and nurturing when she needs to be (i.e., with baby Connor and with Angel after Connor was taken). I may have changed the circumstances that turned her into a demon with glowy superpowers, but I haven't changed who she is at her core.**

 **I wish I could just say "trust me, guys" because I know the whole story and you don't, but I get it. You love these characters as much as I do and you want to see them depicted well and treated fairly. But, seriously, trust me, guys. ;)**

* * *

 **34\. Waiting in the Wings, Part I**

The page in front of Doyle began to blur as he read the same paragraph for the third time, trying to stay focused on the details of the six-breasted female demon that he'd glimpsed in his most recent vision. She was out for blood—seeking revenge on those who'd destroyed her mate. As evil demons went, you couldn't say she was entirely unjustified. Granted, her mate had a tendency to decimate entire villages, so...

"You gonna ask her out?" He heard Cordelia ask, and once again Doyle's focus was ripped away from the aptly named Sorialus the Ravager. Although, he knew that wasn't who Cordelia was referring to as she addressed their boss, who was standing beside her at the coffee maker. "It's been months since you went crazy, and even longer since she actually _was_ crazy... timing is everything."

"Oh… yes." Wesley stammered, as Cordelia busied herself by pouring a mug of coffee. He gave an exaggerated little fist bump. "I plan to make my move when I feel the iron is hot."

"Sure, that makes sense." Cordelia rationalized with a small shrug. "No one likes a lukewarm iron—but, y'know what's even worse? A _rusty_ one—seriously, Wes, you wait any longer and you might forget how it works."

Wesley blanched as he caught her very unsubtle meaning. "I, uh… well, _ahem_ …"

"That's a crazy thing to say, Princess." Doyle remarked from over Wesley's shoulder. "What with all the practice I'm sure is being done on his own time."

That comment only earned more sputtering from the Brit, who was now visibly uncomfortable by the sharp turn in conversation. Cordelia wasn't nearly as scandalized, nodding along in quiet agreement.

"I-I… should really be getting back to work." Wesley excused himself, ducking back into the safer waters of his office and putting an end to his mortification at the hands of his less uptight coworkers.

Doyle sat at Cordelia's desk chuckling ruefully to himself, relieved to have finally put an end to the incessant chattering about Wesley's crush on Fred. He'd been forced to listen to it all morning long. No matter how many warning looks he'd shot in Cordelia's direction, she had continued to offer Wesley words of encouragement, which only made the conversation go on and on and _on_.

It wasn't that Doyle had a problem with Wesley being interested in Fred. Even with his patchy knowledge of future events, Doyle couldn't see into other people's hearts. There were multiple ways the wind could potentially blow. However, Doyle also happened to have eyes, which told him the wind wasn't exactly blowing in Wesley's direction at the moment. Usually it was Cordelia who picked up on that sort of thing way before Doyle, but she had been understandably distracted lately. Transitioning back into "normal" life without the visions, spending oodles of time mooning over Connor. Doyle supposed it helped that he knew _where_ to look, which was, perhaps, the big difference.

Cordelia was shaking her head as she busied herself with the task of stirring the contents of her mug. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you purposely tried to embarrass Wesley out of the room."

"Now why would I do a thing like that?" Doyle replied, with a faux-innocent flash of the dimple. "Not like I started the morning with the migraine from hell or anything. I was rather hoping he'd regale us with another hour of how lovely Fred's eyes are when she's reciting string theory."

Smiling to herself knowingly, Cordelia lifted the mug of coffee she'd been fussing over and brought it over to Doyle, placing it beside him on the desk and then leaning over to plant a kiss on his temple.

"What was that for?" Doyle asked, somewhat surprised by her random show of affection.

She tapped him on the tip of his nose as she moved back toward the coffee maker to pour herself a cup. "I forgot how cute you are when you're grumpy." She said over her shoulder.

"Who's grumpy?" Angel asked as he arrived at the front counter.

"Doyle." Cordelia answered the vampire with her back turned to him.

"I'm not grumpy." Doyle objected.

"He's in a post-vision funk, which means he gets really annoyed by other people having conversations around him—or worse, _fun_. You can tell by that little wrinkle on his forehead." Cordelia continued, ignoring Doyle's protests and finishing her sentence under her breath. "So glad I wasn't like that when I had the visions."

There was an unnaturally wide smile on Angel's face, which caused both Doyle and Cordelia to stop talking and stare in bewilderment. "I know what will cheer you up." The vampire announced, holding up several rectangular pieces of paper. "The Blinnikov World Ballet Corps! One night only."

Doyle blinked at Angel as if the other man had just spoken Latin. "Didn't think the Troubadour had a big enough stage for that sorta thing."

Cordelia spun around, sipping from her newly poured mug of coffee and leaned against the countertop behind her. "Ballet?" She asked skeptically. "Weren't you supposed to get tickets for some band Gunn liked? Mata-something."

"Well… yeah, but… the Blinnikov World Ballet." Angel retorted, as if that was supposed to explain everything.

"Ah… think I'll stick with the Ravager here." Doyle responded, tapping the hideous sketch on the page in front of him.

"And I'll stick with the _ravishing_." Cordelia declared, hoisting a thumb over her shoulder at Doyle. She turned toward her boyfriend, fluttering her eyelashes at him cutely. "Sex always puts him in a better mood."

Doyle shot her a beleaguered look, although, strictly speaking, she wasn't wrong.

"There he is! The man with the tickets!" Gunn's voice carried across the lobby, causing all parties in the reception area to look up at the two individuals who had just entered through the front doors. Gunn was leading the way, with Fred several steps behind, a wistful smile played on her lips. And Doyle might have been imagining things, but he swore there was an unusual flush in her cheeks, as if she'd recently been flattered and was still basking in the glow.

Yeah, sometimes knowing where to look made _all_ the difference.

"Lemme see." Gunn demanded, parading toward Angel and plucking the tickets out of the other man's hand. It didn't take long for Gunn's face to flip from excitement to confusion. "Yo, they spelled Mata Hari seriously wrong." He looked up at Angel with growing dread. "You buy these from a scalper?"

"No. See, it's the Blinnikov World Ballet Corps." Angel explained, pointing to the small print at the bottom of the ticket.

"He keeps saying that like it means something." Cordelia interjected, taking another sip of her coffee as she watched the proceedings with veiled interest.

"Is this some kinda sick joke?" Gunn asked aghast.

Wesley peeked out of his office, looking around as if he was checking to make sure it was safe to exit. Seeing that Angel, Gunn and, of course, Fred, were now present, his face lit up and he eagerly came out to join the group. "What's going on?" He inquired, looking from Angel to Gunn, who were clearly in the midst of some kind of silent showdown.

"Angel got ballet all over my Mata Hari tickets!" Gunn complained, his shoulders slumping as he shoved the unwanted tickets back into Angel's hand as if they were hot coals.

"It's the—"

"Blinnikov World Ballet Corps." Cordelia and Doyle recited in lackluster unison before Angel could do so.

"Oh?" Wesley queried, moving closer to the front counter with genuine interest. "I've heard very good things."

"They're performing _Giselle_ tonight at the Orpheum!" Angel enthused, waving the tickets around in the air. He was as close to a kid in a candy store as the vampire could get. "It's their signature piece. I saw it back in 1890. I cried the whole time—and I was _evil_!"

"I-I think it sounds exciting." Fred finally spoke up, her eyes darting up to Gunn's face, even while the other man was still glaring accusingly at Angel.

"Yes!" Wesley agreed, a little too quickly and loudly. "We should… _all_ go!"

Doyle rubbed at his brow, thinking Wesley just couldn't help but shoot himself in the foot—but, why did he have to shoot everyone else as well?

"There are six tickets." Angel pointed out, his eyes turning toward Doyle pleadingly and then redirecting toward Cordelia when he saw the unmovable expression of discontent on his best friend's face. "Not refundable."

"Well…" Cordelia considered, seeing how desperately Angel wanted them all to participate. "We get to dress up, right?" She finished with a shrug. "Count us in."

"Hold on a sec there, Princess." Doyle objected, rising from the desk chair and stalking closer to his girlfriend. "Suddenly ya _wanna_ get all dressed up? What happened to priorities and all that?"

"Um, hello. The jackhammers to the skull that come with the emotional wrecking balls are your problem again, not mine." She reminded him. "The natural order has been restored, and there is nothing more natural than me shopping for a new dress." She leaned closer to him and stage-whispered into his left ear. "Followed by the part where you take it off later."

Doyle reconsidered his anti-ballet stance, finally turning to give Angel an affirming nod. "We're in."

"Great!" Angel responded excitedly, turning back to Gunn and wiggling the tickets back and forth, his smile juxtaposing Gunn's frown. "Gunn? C'mon, I promise, you won't be sorry."

"I'm already sorry." Gunn replied grumpily. "Next time, I go pick up the tickets myself."

* * *

"Um… hi."

Doyle had opened Angel's apartment door to find a nervous-looking Fred wringing her hands on the other side. He looked down a the tiny woman with confusion, tossing a glance over his shoulder at where he'd just placed Connor down in the crib. "Hey… you and Cordy finished dress shopping already?"

"Yeah." Fred said uncomfortably, her eyes darting down to her feet. "You're gonna die when you see her dress." She subtly shuffled closer to the threshold. "She's upstairs getting ready. I-I just came by to, um… ask you for some advice—if-if you don't mind."

"Sure." Doyle replied warmly, gesturing for her to enter the room. "Just gotta talk low so we don't wake the little one, yeah?"

"Of course." She agreed in a whisper, tossing a smile in the direction of the crib and moving to the opposite side of the room as Doyle closed the door and followed behind her.

"Listen, Cordy's got real strong opinions on fashion and all that—she doesn't mean anything by it." Doyle offered, trying to imagine what kind of counseling Fred may require after an afternoon of dress-shopping with his girlfriend.

"Oh, no, it's nothing like that." Fred insisted, as the color in her cheeks became a deeper shade of crimson. "Thing is… this is kinda embarrassing."

"Trust me, Fred, whatever ya have to say can't be half as embarrassing as the conversation I had with Wesley earlier today." Doyle assured her. "Ask away."

"Okay, well… Cordy sort of mentioned that my feelings for a certain someone might not be so one-sided." Fred explained, pacing in a small line back and forth, her words coming out rushed, with barely a breath of oxygen between them. "They might be more of a shared type of thing. And since you're a guy—mostly human and everything—and you usually know things, I guess I was hoping you could tell me how to, y'know—get to the next step in turning a friend into _more_ than a friend, assuming what Cordy said was true and she wasn't just trying to spare my feelings."

"Whew." Doyle blew out a puff of air, as he slowly worked to process Fred's anxious rambling. So much for his warnings to Cordelia to stay out of other people's love lives.

"I know, it's so stupid of me to even have to ask." Fred conceded, gesturing wildly with her arms. "But, I lived in a cave in a hell dimension for five years, where my romantic prospects were kinda… well, non-existent. So, this is really new to me."

Lifting a hand to the top of his head, Doyle scratched lightly as he eyed the uneasy woman in front of him. He was a little puzzled, knowing full well that Cordelia was pulling for Wesley in the unspoken love triangle that had been forming around the only other female member of the Angel Investigations team. Perhaps, Doyle's knowledge of one possible future had been clouding his view, and it was Cordelia who had the clearer picture after all.

Either way, the girl needed guidance, and that much Doyle could offer. For whatever it was worth. "Ah… well, speaking from my own experience—I tended toward the chickening out myself." He confessed, recalling that time long ago, when he danced around the prospect of asking Cordelia out nearly every day. Granted, part of his hesitation had been on account of his demon heritage, but in the end, the result was the same; he'd never made the first move. "If it hadn't been for Cordy's more direct approach, can't really say how things woulda shaken out between us."

"She's really brave." Fred said admiringly, biting her lip. "Me, not so much. But, I mean, her strategy obviously worked... so, that's what I should do. Just… make the first move!" She encouraged herself, swallowing thickly and then looking up at Doyle with renewed apprehension. "What should that move be exactly?"

"Listen, Fred." Doyle said gently, moving closer to her and placing a hand on her slender shoulder to cease her fidgeting. "If rejection's the thing ya fear—I can promise ya, no matter what y'do, you'll get what ya want in the end."

"I will." She said, breathing an obvious sigh of relief. "You're sure?"

"More sure than I am about most things, yeah." He gave her a warm smile and a playful wink. "He's a lucky guy."

"Thanks, Doyle!" She enthused, her face lighting up as she spontaneously threw her arms around his shoulders and squeezed tightly. "I'd better go get ready!"

Doyle nodded in agreement, chuckling to himself as he watched her bound from the room as if she was floating on air. He'd very nearly broken his rule not to meddle in other people's love lives. Then again, he hadn't said anything untrue.

One way or another, Fred was going to make one of his co-workers very happy.


	35. Waiting in the Wings, Part 2

**35\. Waiting in the Wings, Part II**

Doyle brushed off the lapels of his rented tux—classic, but plain. He didn't like it as much as the one he'd worn to the wedding a few months back. Of course, he couldn't exactly return the shop that had rented him that one; not after the poor condition of the tux he'd returned last time. He really hoped there wouldn't be any demon-fighting this evening or his options for any future black tie events would be severely limited.

Catching a flurry of movement at the top of the staircase, Doyle spotted Fred, looking as lovely as he'd ever seen her. She was giggling at Gunn, who had just arrived wearing his own rented tux with much reluctance. Although, Doyle couldn't hear precisely what was being said on the floor above, it was clear that compliments were being exchanged. Soon Wesley joined them at the top of the stairs, dividing their attention as he placed a stole over Fred's shoulders; the threesome then moved in unison down the grand staircase, joining Doyle at the bottom.

"Great dress." Doyle praised Fred politely, as she passed on the arms of her two companions.

"Thanks." Fred blushed in response. "Cordy picked it out."

"She does have a knack for that sorta thing." Doyle agreed, leaning against the banister as he waited for his date to appear.

As if on cue, a new figure appeared in the space at the top of the staircase in all its hourglass glory. Doyle's heart skipped a beat as he saw her—Cordelia, looking as radiant as ever. Her hair was pulled into a relaxed up-do, with sexy pieces framing her face. And the dress itself looked like it had been made for her to wear. The shimmering black material clung to each of her curves as she gracefully moved down the stairs, stopping right before she reached the very bottom.

"So… what d'ya think?" She inquired, holding her arms up and tilting her hips.

Doyle's brows arched upward as he admired the visual, and his lips formed an O-shape unaccompanied by any sound.

"Speechless is good." Cordelia declared with a proud nod of her head. She dropped her pose and let her eyes roam over her date's tuxedo clad body; her lips curled in approval.

Licking his lips, Doyle made his approach, sliding an arm around her waist and finding nothing but bare flesh across her lower back. He _definitely_ liked this dress. "Y'are a vision, darlin'." He said huskily. "It's like seeing ya again for the first time—butterflies and whatnot."

She flashed him a wry smile. "Doyle, the first time you saw me I was helping a bullet-ridden Angel limp to his car, which you had just rammed into a wrought iron gate."

"Hence, the butterflies." Doyle maintained, taking the shawl she had slung over her arm and assisting her in wrapping the garment around her naked shoulders. "I thought Angel was gonna _kill_ me."

Cordelia's laughter rang out like a bell; she dropped an affectionate peck on his lips and slipped an arm through the crook of his elbow so he could properly escort her away from the staircase. Standing beside the ménage e trois already clustered in the lobby, they waited for the final member of their party to make his appearance… which he did a moment later with an angry demon on his heels, shooing him along.

"Connor will be fine, you big worry-wart you!" Lorne insisted, pausing at the top banister while Angel scurried downward. "And, don't worry—I bear no grudge whatsoever for having not been invited along. Seriously, a night full of music, dancing and well-dressed individuals, clearly not the sort of thing that yours truly would find at all interesting."

As soon as Angel made it the bottom he grinned at all the smiling faces around him. "Shall we?" He asked the group, rubbing his hands together with excitement.

In answer, Cordelia extended her open right arm in Angel's direction, and he happily latched on. Three by three, the members of the Angel Investigations team headed out for a night that they hoped would be magical.

* * *

 _Zzzzzz. Snort. Snort. Zzzzzz._

Doyle's head rested against his palm, which in turn, rested on the arm of his velvet-lined seat. He blinked his eyes wildly, trying to keep his heavy lids from falling shut. It was an arduous task that wasn't helped by the rhythmic snoring in his ear.

It was like a buzz saw—a very infectious buzz saw. Cordelia had been sound asleep, drooling on his shoulder, for the entire first act. Doyle himself had dozed a few times, and then jolted awake as if he was a student who'd fallen asleep in class and expected the teacher to yell at him. The teacher, in this case, being Angel, who was so enraptured by the performance below, that he probably didn't even realize Cordelia was snoring, despite the volume and proximity at which she did so.

On the stage below, the blur of tiny dancers continued in time with the endless music. Doyle wasn't really focused on any one dancer in particular; they all looked like little spinning cupcakes from his vantage point. He knew there was supposed to be a story unfolding, but he hadn't made much of an effort to follow it. He could guess from the musical cues that something very dramatic was transpiring.

They really needed to add dialogue or subtitles or _something_.

In the seats directly in front of Doyle, sat Gunn, Fred and Wesley, respectively, wrapped in a subtle drama of their own. Wesley's focus was on Fred, his hand darting toward hers at several junctures, but ultimately shying away each time. Meanwhile, Fred seemed engaged in the spectacle on the stage below—only occasionally did she turn her head to smile at the two men seated on either side of her. As for Gunn, he was fully engrossed in the show, missing every smile tossed in his direction. Despite his reluctance to attend, he now seemed like the biggest ballet fan of the bunch, save Angel himself.

Speaking of Angel, Doyle noticed the vampire shift forward in his seat, his brow visibly furrowing even in the dim light. Interest piqued, Doyle leaned over Cordelia to address his friend. "What is it, man?" He whispered, knowing Angel was the only one likely to hear him over the music. "Not exactly how you remember it?"

 _Snort. Snort. Zzzzz._ Cordelia shifted slightly against Doyle's shoulder as he moved.

"It's the way I remember." Angel replied, his narrowed eyes never leaving the stage below.

Doyle felt a yawn coming on, but he fought to stifle it. "They're consistent—that's good."

"No… I mean, everything's the same." Angel clarified, turning to look directly at Doyle, his eyes dark with suspicion. "Same dancers. Same steps. Same exact _performance_ I saw over a hundred years ago."

Doyle sat up a little straighter in his velvet seat, for the first time taking a legitimate interest in the dancing below. "Ah... well, that sounds a bit more unnatural-like." He observed the twirling figures, letting his demon senses extend to the far reaches of the theater. "Not vampires." He noted with mounting curiosity. "Not sensing any demons at all."

"Me neither." Angel agreed, turning his head back toward the stage. "But, something's definitely not right."

Peeking down at the program in his lap, Doyle saw a glimmer of light on the horizon. He lifted the pamphlet and held it up for Angel to see. "Intermission, yeah? We see if we can get ourselves a back stage tour."

Angel nodded his agreement and Doyle sat back in his chair, tapping his foot with anticipation. For once, he wasn't sorry to have a job pop up in the middle of a night out—he just hoped whatever it was wouldn't ruin his tux.

* * *

Keeping his hand on Cordelia's lower back, Doyle ushered her down the hallway and toward the private stage entrance. "Sure you don't wanna go back and catch a few more Z's?" Doyle teased her as they followed in Angel's footsteps. "Or can't ya sleep without my shoulder to drool on?"

"I don't drool." She retorted as they maneuvered past the now unconscious security guard, who Angel had deftly knocked out before the guy even knew what hit him. "Think I've hit my nap quota for one evening—I'm ready to join Vamp Cassidy and the Brachen Kid on ribald adventures through the underworld of ballet dancing."

Doyle chuckled at the mental imagery—he and Angel as cowboys, battling a posse of evil ballerinas. That would be a strange happenstance even for them.

"Uh…" Angel had passed through the stage door and stopped short, causing Doyle and Cordelia to also come up short behind him. They each took a moment to take in their surroundings, which were a little more bizarre than evil ballerinas.

"This building didn't go on forever from the outside, did it?" Cordelia asked, turning her head in one direction and then twisting it the opposite way.

"We've got some serious mojo going on here." Doyle declared. "Why couldn't it have just been evil ballerinas?"

"We can't rush into this." Angel instructed, and was met with eager nods of agreement from his partners in crime. "Let's go talk to the others, form a plan."

All three of them spun around to retreat through the door they'd just entered, only to find a solid wall in its place. No door. No way out. Just a wall in an endless hallway.

"Pretty sure this violates the fire code." Cordelia critiqued, pointing to the now door-less wall.

"And all the laws of physics." Doyle added, shuffling a few steps forward to place his palms against the solid structure, hoping to find the exit he knew must be there somewhere. He pushed against the solid facade several times, looking for a trap door. Nothing moved—not even a budge. He knelt down feeling along the floor for a panel or a vent; still he came up empty. Pushing himself off the floor, he brushed the dust from his knees.

"This is more serious than I thought. We'd better stay close, there's no telling—" He turned back to face his companions and found that he was talking to himself. "…what could happen next." He trailed off as he stared at the empty air. "Cordy? Angel?" He called for them, turning all around in a circle as he searched for the friends who had been right beside him only seconds ago and were now nowhere in sight. "Like, say, us getting split up and never seeing each other again." He muttered unhappily to himself as he began trudging down the endless hallway. "That would be decidedly _bad_ , yeah?"


	36. Waiting in the Wings, Part 3

**36\. Waiting in the Wings, Part III**

"I don't understand how we lost him!" Cordelia griped, as she shuffled along beside Angel, holding tightly to the vampire's elbow so she wouldn't accidentally lose him, too. "Only Doyle could get lost in a hallway that has no doors."

"Something must've shifted." Angel replied, as his eyes continuously scanned the ceiling, the floors, the walls all around them. He was searching diligently as if there was something there to find, which there wasn't as far as the eye could see.

"Well, I hope it shifted him _through the exit_ so he can go get help." She grumbled. "No offense, but being stuck in a never-ending hallway with you is not how I wanna spend the next eternity."

"Here!" Angel's voice grew louder with excitement as they finally came to a portion of the hallway that looked slightly different from the rest. For one thing, it actually featured a door, which Angel pushed through eagerly, leading them into an ornate dressing room.

Cordelia elbowed past Angel to walk deeper into the beautifully decorated room, which obviously belonged to the prima ballerina. "Ooh, loving all the vintage. This ballerina has style." She said admiringly as she sat herself down at the vanity and toyed with some of the old-fashioned perfume bottles that were displayed there. "Did I ever tell you about the dressing room I had in that alternate universe I visited on my birthday? Most of that place sucked, but _that_ part I could've gotten used to."

"Is it warm in here?" Angel wondered, yanking on his shirt collar. He was wandering around several feet away from where Cordelia sat in front of the mirror; his face looking unusually flushed. "I feel…"

She looked up toward the mirror in front of her, seeing only her own reflection, but somehow, it was enough to send a tingle of energy up her spine. "Me, too." She answered as she looked herself directly in the eye. Slowly she swiveled her body to face the vampire behind her. "I feel it."

"Something happened here." Angel said, his eyes lingering a little too long on Cordelia's face. "Maybe the something that caused all this."

"Uh huh." She murmured her agreement as she felt herself slowly rise from the chair. "Angel?"

"Yeah?" He replied.

"I want you…" It was Cordelia's voice that had come from Cordelia's lips, but somehow it didn't feel like she was really speaking. "…to undress me."

"You what?!" Angel gasped, his eyes going wide with something akin to fear. "Uh… Cordy." He swallowed hard as he took a step back. "It's not that warm."

"I want you to see who I really am." Cordelia found herself persisting, stalking deliberately across the room in Angel's direction. "You're the only one who can."

Angel shook his head slightly, even as he stood frozen in place. He could have continued to back away, could have moved away entirely, but instead he stood there. Waiting. "Not me." He breathed in reply, closing his eyes as she approached. "Not us."

"No." She said, stopping herself for a moment. Wavering in her tracks, she tried to regain control over her limbs, which seemed to be acting of their own accord. She was only a few inches away from Angel; teetering in place, she fought a silent battle. "We can't. This-this isn't right…"

The spell or possession—or whatever it was that had caused Cordelia to speak out of turn—seemed to falter for a moment. There was a chance to run. She wanted to run—flee the room before something that _really_ shouldn't happen happened.

But, then Angel swiftly bridged the gap between them, gripping her tightly and pulling her body flush against his. "Nothing has ever been more right." He insisted, his cool breath hitting the side of her neck. "You want me to make love to you right here?"

No. The answer was no.

The answer _should_ have been no. The teeny tiniest voice in the recesses of Cordelia's brain knew that and wanted to scream it aloud, but her traitorous lips disagreed. "You know I do."

His fingers lightly caressed her cheek, running downward over the sensitive flesh of her neck and finally tracing through the dip in her shoulder. He was whispering to her tenderly, like a lover would. "But you're afraid."

And she was. The butterflies in her stomach were flapping wildly, beating inside her chest from both the anticipation of this man's touch and the knowledge of what could happen if they were discovered _touching_. "What if he finds us?"

"I'm not afraid." He insisted. "I'm not afraid of anything."

Her head dropped back as she felt his lips come within millimeters of her skin, and then she was pleading in a breathy whisper. "I'm only alive when you're inside me."

That was when his mouth claimed hers, passionately taking the breath from her lungs. Kissing her deeply until her head was spinning from the lack of air. And she wanted more. So much more.

They were moving backwards, toward the chaise lounge that adorned the center of the room. He eased her down so that she was lying on her back, stretching her body over the piece of furniture as her lover continued to kiss her senseless... he moved from her lips down to her neck. He didn't stop.

"This is wrong." She mumbled into the open air, as she felt the gentle love bites along her throat and his hands moving over the curves of her body.

"Hush." His voice vibrated from below her, increasing the sensation of his mouth against her skin.

"You don't know him." She whimpered, feeling the fear building up again, despite the heady distraction of the hot, wet kisses. "He has power."

His hand slid under her dress, running over her thigh, seeking the warmest depths of her. "The power to do this?" He asked, causing her to gasp.

"Stephan." She murmured her lover's name as if it were a prayer on her lips. "His power is unnatural. He could..."

"What? Kill us?" Her lover scoffed, his hands were now moving upward, over her breasts, toward the slender straps of her gown. He slipped the material from her slender shoulders, first the right side, then the left.

"Worse." She warned him. Afraid, so very afraid. Afraid that the kisses would stop. Afraid that someone would make them stop.

"Kurskov owns the company." He reminded her, as he continued to peel off her dress. "He doesn't own you."

She held out a hand, pushing against his chest to make him pause. As she sat up her gown slid even lower, pooling around her waist. Looking her lover directly in the eye, she tried to warn him—tried to explain how very dire this situation was. "He doesn't know that. He thinks I'm his." She said sadly, her hand planted over her lover's heart. "He thinks I love him."

"Come away with me." He replied, lifting a hand to cover the one she had planted on his chest, gently stroking it with his thumb. "Now. Tonight. We'll disappear. Even _he_ won't find us."

She hesitated, feeling the tear in her heart. The man she loved pulling in one direction, her life's work in the other. "I... Stephan. Help me." She pleaded, desperate to have him light her soul on fire once again, and extinguish her fears in the flames. "Help me be not afraid."

Closing her eyes, she once again gave herself over to her lover's kisses. Down, down, down he went, setting every inch of her bare skin ablaze. She sighed with pleasure as she felt his tongue tease the skin right below her belly button. "Oh… " She moaned, letting her eyelids flicker open. "…no." She muttered, still half in a daze as her eyes happened upon a new sight. She sat up sharply, her eyes going wide with alarm. "Oh, no! It's _him_!"

A man loomed in the doorway—a furious man. His face was contorted with rage, his pale eyes blazing with hate. They burned so hard they turned a fiery red. His whole face changed, into the face of a demon. And then there was a snarl as this unhinged creature lunged across the room, his seething words being spit from his demonic lips. "I'll kill you!"

A moment later, Angel was tackled to the floor and pummeled repeatedly by several demon fists—all of which seemed to belong to one singular demon. There were growls of anger and grunts of impact, as the demon attacked and Angel tried desperately to defend himself. When he did manage a defensive strike, he instantly regretted it. "Ow!" Angel cried shaking out his fist, which had met with a sharp row of quills.

The blow wasn't enough to stop this beast, fueled by wrath and jealousy—he slammed Angel backward into the wall, grabbing the larger man by the tuxedo lapels and spinning him around to slam him again. Angel's head bounced off the wall with a thud, but he managed to gain some leverage and knee his attacker in the gut, causing him to falter. Finally, Angel was able to even the score. He unleashed his own demon—vamping out—turning the one-sided attack into an all out demon brawl.

As the two romantic rivals distracted themselves with trying to tear each other apart, Cordelia leaped up off the chaise lounge, trying to get her bearings. First question first, what the _hell_ had just happened? More important question—why was her beautiful dress in a shimmering ball at her feet?! She hastily snatched up the garment and began yanking it back over her skimpy black underthings, cursing all the while.

Just then she heard a sharp cracking of wood as Angel and Doyle went crashing into a chair in the corner. She gaped at the two best friends, beating the snot out of each other. And then watched in muted horror as Doyle's hand wrapped around the leg of the broken chair, and aimed toward Angel's chest in one fluid motion.

"Doyle!" She screamed at the top of her lungs, causing his makeshift stake to freeze mid-air, inches from impact. "Angel! Stop it, both of you!"

Both men halted at the sound of her voice, breathing hard and staring at each other with an air of confusion. Angel's face morphed first, letting go of his visible vampirism. His eyes focused first on the weapon in Doyle's hand, and then darted up to his friend's eyes—his face was nearly unreadable, but a trace of panic betrayed him. Opening his fist, Doyle let the sharp piece of wood clatter to the ground. He, too, morphed from the demon into his human face, but the hardness in his eyes didn't recede—his breathing didn't slow.

Wiping his forearm across his sweaty brow, Doyle slowly began to pick himself up off the floor. Angel did the same, but both men kept an uncomfortable distance from one another. "What just happened?" Doyle gritted out, his eyes skirting toward Cordelia, and wincing when he got there. "Were you two...?"

"It wasn't her fault." Angel answered hastily, averting his eyes to the floor. "It wasn't… _anyone's_ fault."

"We were possessed." Cordelia explained matter-of-factly, holding a hand to her stomach as she replayed the entire sordid episode in her head; it felt so different now that the spell had been broken. Like something she'd watched on a movie screen rather than experienced first hand. Her face lit up with excitement as she replayed the curious dialogue. "Oh, oh! And now we know what's really going on here!"

"We do?" Angel asked skeptically.

"Yeah! See, Kurskov, the guy who owns this company must be, like, an evil wizard or something." Cordelia chirped enthusiastically. "The prima ballerina—she was _terrified_ of him."

"For good reason." Doyle mused, pointing to his own head as he reflected on what he'd learned from the possession experience. "Insane jealousy wouldn't be putting too fine a point on it—he was obsessed with her. Wanted 'er all to himself."

"Right. Stalker-fan to the max." Cordelia agreed, bobbing her head as they fit the pieces of the puzzle together. "So, when he discovered that she was planning to run off with her lover, he created this time capsule thingamajig to trap her soul for all eternity—talk about boundary issues."

"We need to figure out how to break the spell." Angel stated the obvious. His head was still bowed low, so as not to risk eye contact with either Cordelia or Doyle.

"Sooner we do that, sooner we get the hell outta this prison, yeah?" Doyle agreed, also having trouble looking directly at either his girlfriend or his best friend.

They all moved in unison toward the open door of the dressing room, but stopped short as the doorway was filled by several stocky masked men holding pointy stiletto knives. From behind the carved faces—some smiling, some frowning—there was the accompanying sound of both laughter and weeping.

Comedy and tragedy, in the flesh.

"I am gonna have nightmares about this place for a _long_ time." Cordelia remarked facetiously, as she tossed a beleaguered expression at the two men on her heels.

At least this time, they wouldn't be fighting each other…

* * *

Doyle watched Cordelia move quickly but stealthily in front of him, leading the way through the winding hallway. She looked like a warrior princess, dressed in her glistening evening gown, brandishing a stiletto she'd procured from one of the comedy/tragedy minions. In her hands, it was wielded expertly against the seemingly endless stream of opponents, the months of training having paid off in kind… but it also paired quite nicely with the stilettos on her feet.

Neither Angel nor Doyle needed to borrow a weapon for this fight; each relying on their brute demon strength and attributes. Truthfully, Doyle felt safer behind the quills at the moment—as if they could mask his deluge of feelings. As if it wasn't readily apparent that Doyle's head was barely in this fight.

How could it be after what he'd just seen? After what he'd just _felt_?

He wasn't sure how much of the rage and jealousy belonged to him, versus that which was courtesy of the wizard, Kurskov. He suspected there was more of Allen Francis Doyle than he'd like to admit. Especially since so much of it lingered inside him. Burning its way through his stomach lining.

Even now as he followed in her path, watching the way her lithe body moved in battle, he was envisioning the jarring sight from the dressing room. Cordelia, almost completely undressed, save her barest essentials. Angel's hands and lips running all over her. And, worst of all, the look of rapture on her face as it was all happening—her head thrown back, her moans of encouragement…

It forced Doyle to relive other moments—moments he'd dismissed as nothing. Moments he'd tossed aside as paranoia on his part. Angel's hands all over Cordelia's body in the training room. Them laughing together, whispering together, sharing secrets. Had Doyle been a fool all along to think all that was nothing? To think it was just them sharing a friendship—a familial bond, strengthened by the fact that Doyle and Angel were practically brothers.

There was a voice in the back of Doyle's head, arguing that he was being irrational, egged on by the role he'd played in their mystical affair. And then there was the other voice… the one that had been whispering to him for quite some time now. The one that _knew_ things.

 _If two people are meant to be together…_

"You guys alright?" Angel's voice snapped Doyle out of his silent ruminations. They'd turned a corner and come face to face with their friends. Beaten and battle weary. Bodies of dead minions littering the floor nearby.

Fred and Gunn alone, the smaller one holding up the much larger one.

"Charles got stabbed." Fred explained. Something in her voice was different. It wasn't that she'd called him "Charles," since she had always done that. But there was a familiarity between the two that hadn't existed a few hours prior. If Doyle had any lingering question about the direction Fred's heart had taken her, it was answered in the way she looked up at Gunn in that moment.

Supplemented by the look of anguish on Wesley's face—quietly, hidden in the nearby shadows as if he wasn't present at all. Doyle could see him lurking there, looking as if he had a stab wound of his own. It was a look Doyle could identify, because it was one he shared.

Gunn yanked his bloodstained shirt out of the way, revealing the deep gash in his side. Cordelia was quick to step forward, evaluating the wound with the practiced eye of a veteran battlefield nurse. "Oh yeah, that'll need some stitches." She stood up straight, patting Gunn on the shoulder reassuringly. "Could've been worse—a few inches over and you'd be down a set of kidneys."

Fred's eyes went wide, although Gunn merely laughed as he let his bloody shirt drop back down to hide his wound. "Any idea where we are or _what_ _the_ _hell?_ "

"Your second question is the answer to the first." Doyle grumbled, sensing that they were about to have more company. "In a manner o' speaking."

"It's a spell." Angel answered more coherently. "Cast by a vengeful wizard—we need to figure out how to break it."

Wesley stepped forward, finally revealing himself to the entire group. "He's still here, maintaining it. This kind of temporal shift can't just exist on it's own—he must be close."

"Of course, he's close!" Cordelia huffed. "He did all this because of his obsession with a woman who had zero interest in him—you think he was just gonna walk away? Nuh uh, I bet psycho-boy's had a front row seat for the last century."

Angel nodded his agreement, taking a few steps in the direction he hoped would lead him to the stage. "I'd better go find him and introduce myself." He paused, tossing an awkward glance over his shoulder in Doyle's general direction, perhaps intending to ask for backup.

But Doyle didn't let it land—turning his head away, and welcoming the distraction that came in the form of a half dozen comedy/tragedy masked minions barreling in their direction. "Incoming!" He announced to his comrades, as they each took up their battle stances, and prayed that Angel would put an end to this before anyone else was stabbed through the gut… or the heart.


	37. Waiting in the Wings, Part 4

**37\. Waiting In the Wings, Part IV**

Cordelia tossed her shawl over the back of an armchair, and leaned over to remove the strappy heel from her right foot. Doyle followed her inside and shut the door to their apartment, lost in his own thoughts as he had been for most of the evening.

He stared at the back of Cordelia's shimmering gown, watching as it caught the light. She tossed her right shoe aside and leaned over to remove the left. Clover sidled up beside her, seeking to steal her attention from her footwear. _She's unusually quiet_ , Doyle thought to himself. A sign that she, too, was still reflecting on the night's events.

 _Daydreaming, perhaps…_

Turning away from her, Doyle made a beeline toward the kitchen. He tugged his tuxedo jacket off as he moved, slinging it over one of the dining room chairs. Next, he stuck a finger into the folds of his bowtie, yanking until it fell loose around his neck. Once he'd made it to the other room, he opened the fridge, opting for the ease of a cold beer, rather than digging for a bottle of the good stuff that Cordelia had hidden away—her subtle way of discouraging him from drinking it often. He could rarely find it in the same location twice, which meant it was often not worth the hassle of finding at all.

Twisting off the bottle cap, Doyle took a deep swig before sauntering back out toward the living room and plopping heavily down onto the couch cushions. Sinking back, he lifted his feet up onto the coffee table in front of him and sat silently.

Cordelia was still in the living room. Both her shoes removed, she had crouched down to nuzzle her nose against Clover's, lapping up the cat's affection and trying to prevent the pair of little claws from snagging on her dress. Doyle said nothing from his place on the couch; he just sat, watching her, drinking his beer. He couldn't recall ever having so much and so little to say all at the same time.

After giving Clover one final pat on the head, Cordelia stood up, letting out a deep sigh. She planted a hand on her hip and her eyes directly on Doyle. "What gives?"

"Excuse me?" He asked, as if her question did not compute. And, it really didn't, considering the circumstances.

"You're acting weird." Cordelia pointed out. "Obviously this is because of what happened between me and Angel. So, let's not have this be one of those things that turns into a thing." She pointed at him, as if cueing him to speak. "Get it all out."

Doyle twisted his lips tightly together; his gut reaction was to avoid poking at a wound so fresh. But then he opened his mouth and exhaled loudly, after that came the words. "What d'ya want me to say? It was upsetting." He admitted with an involuntary shrug of his shoulders. He stared at the bottle in his hands instead of looking at her. "Seeing you and Angel all hot and heavy like that…"

"…while you were possessed by a jealous spirit." She finished the thought not quite the way Doyle would have finished it.

"Yeah." He agreed, swallowing against the bile that started to rise from his stomach. "I dunno. It looked to me like ya were really enjoying yourselves, yeah?"

"I wouldn't say _we_ were enjoying it as much as Stephan and the ballerina." Cordelia answered rather flippantly. "Nothing was inserted, if that's what you're worried about. There was just some heavy petting, that's all."

Doyle's brows furrowed at her dismissive admission, and he removed his feet from the table, sitting up straight. He didn't find the lack of penetration as comforting as she'd like it to be. She was watching him closely, and her demeanor changed as she saw how agitated he was. "Wait… you're really jealous?" She asked incredulously, navigating around the living room furniture to seat herself on the empty cushion beside him. "You can't seriously be this upset about me and Angel being whammied by some horny ghosts?!"

"There was a distinct lack o' clothing, as I can recall." Doyle retorted. His body was rigid, slightly turned away from hers. "And, y'know, Angel's a good-looking guy. And a champion."

"And a eunuch." She added.

"He hates when ya call him that." Doyle muttered, picking at the label on his beer bottle.

She was quiet for a moment, but he could feel the power of her disbelieving gaze as it drilled into the side of his face. "It's crazy for you to be jealous about this."

"I don't think so." He rebutted, turning to face her so she could see the truth laid bare in his eyes. "My best friend and my girlfriend pawing at each other like animals—it's a hard image to wipe outta my brain. Harder than any vision I've ever had, that's for sure. Mostly because it happened in front of my _actual_ eyeballs."

"It's hard for me, too." She rationalized. "But I've managed to repress a lot of awful stuff over the years—the memory of Wesley drooling all over my chin on Graduation Day, for example. I'm sure I'll manage to file this away, too."

"It's not a joke." Doyle grumbled.

Cordelia reached out to lightly touch his shoulder and although he hadn't meant to—he flinched. "I can see that." She said, with an arch of her brow, finally realizing just how deep this particular wound went. "I just don't understand where this is coming from—magical psychosis aside, when have I _ever_ given you a reason to think I'd be unfaithful or that I'd want anyone but you?"

"Ya haven't." He admitted, lifting a hand to the bridge of his nose. "Not directly… but I got the feeling from the _other_ you that maybe…"

" _What_?" Cordelia urged with reserved curiosity.

"You love Angel." Doyle said in a tight voice. "She did, I mean. I dunno what ever became of it, but… I felt it."

Cordelia pursed her lips and nodded ever so slightly. "Well, I do love Angel." She confirmed, causing the little vein in Doyle's forehead to twitch involuntarily as his jaw tightened. "I love him the same way I love Wesley and Gunn and Fred. Connor, too, although maybe that's a _little_ different, 'cause Connor's so tiny and extra lovable." Her head tilted and her eyes filled with warmth; she wasn't joking around anymore. "It's not the same way I love you." This time when she reached for Doyle's arm, he didn't flinch, he let her hand settle there, squeezing gently. "I can't imagine loving anyone else the way I love you. Least of all Angel."

Her words were compelling, as was her soft, reassuring tone, but Doyle knew what he knew. "I can." He objected in a voice beaten down by exhaustion. "You've known Angel a long time, you've been there for him through a lot, took on the visions when you were needed, learned how to slay a room full o' whatever those things were tonight. Ya haven't been that spoiled Princess from Sunnydale in a long time—you're an honest to goodness champion, darlin'."

"And you preferred the ditzy bitch?" She asked skeptically.

"I've loved ya since I've known ya, Cordy—the girl you were and the amazing woman you've become." He assured her. "But, you've grown a lot and it wouldn't be unusual if you were… drawn to others more like yourself."

"There's no one like me." Cordelia laughed, still not entirely following his logic. "You're close enough."

"Someone better than me, then." Doyle corrected. He wasn't being self-deprecating, he was being honest. Doyle had never been a hero in the sense that Angel was. Nor did he consider himself in the same heroic ballpark as Cordelia. Mostly because he'd never chosen the life of a champion. It had chosen him. He was only a hero by default.

Cordelia gaped in reply, pleading with him, but also lightly admonishing him. "Well, I don't know what that's supposed to mean, but I do know this—you can't judge me based on how that other Cordelia felt; we aren't the same person." She said sensibly. "Yeah, so maybe in that other time and place when I never had a chance to fall in love with you—because, y'know, you _died_ before our first date—it's possible something could have developed between me and Angel. But, it wouldn't be what you and I have right now." She scooted closer to him, running one hand across his back and the other down his arm, leading him to place the half-empty beer bottle down on the table so she could claim the hand for herself. "I _promise_ you, Doyle, you have nothing to worry about. Not in this reality… and probably not in most parallel dimensions."

The sliver of a smile began to work its way to his lips, and he nodded his head in a way that both agreed with her and rebuked himself for his momentary lapse in faith. "Yeah?"

"After all we've been through, you think I'd leave you for your celibate, penny-pinching vampire of a best friend? Not without extreme supernatural intervention, buddy, that's all I'm saying." She clucked her tongue at him. "To be honest, I'm offended that you'd doubt the epic nature of our love."

Doyle was chuckling heartily now, as he reached over to place his arm around her back, stroking the bare skin he'd been enjoying earlier in the evening. "Maybe I need a crash course on that repression bit ya talked about. Any pointers?"

She used her index finger to needle him in the ribs. "I've got it—why don't you imagine what would've happened if it had been you and Angel who walked into that room together, instead of me and Angel?"

"Ah, I can't imagine Angel and I getting caught up in the role play…" Doyle's face wrinkled with distaste. "Okay, now I can, and it's _really_ disturbing."

"See, it was better things happened the way they did." Cordelia reasoned, leaning over to give his earlobe a little love bite. "I'm not sure your friendship could've handled the alternative."

"You can stop right there, love." He said, laughing along with her, and turning his face so that their noses rubbed together. "You've already won."

"Then give me my prize." She whispered cutely.

They were both smiling as their lips brushed together, lightly at first and then longer, and slower and deeper. It reminded him of their first kiss in a way, as if they were rediscovering each other all over again. He cupped her smooth jaw between his palms and then buried his hands deeper into her mussed hair.

When finally they came up for air, Doyle genuinely felt better. As if he'd been successfully purged of all the envy that had raced through his veins. Cordelia was the cure for whatever ailed him—she always had been. He lovingly stroked a thumb across her cheek, smiling down at her well-kissed lips. The love she had for him was plainly visible in her eyes, and he had to wonder how he'd doubted it even for a second.

Temporary insanity—that had to be it.

She may have been hyperbolizing about the epic nature of their love, but not by much. There was real magic there between them. The kind of magic worth fighting for—even if the person you were fighting was yourself.

"I have another idea." She sweet-talked, untangling herself from his arms and rising from the couch. "How about you take me into the bedroom and do what your eyes have been doing all night?" Walking backwards, she swung her hips from side to side, beckoning for him to follow with the crook of her finger.

"I can do that." He answered, pushing himself off the couch, letting himself be reeled in by her tractor beam.

She turned her back on him then, letting her hands slide over her womanly curves. He appreciated the view as he followed in her slow, deliberate footsteps, watching as her expert fingers began to slide the straps of her gown down her bare arms. First the right, then the left. The fabric precariously hanging in place. Teasing, in all the right ways.

Giving up on the methodical stalking, which was taking far too long, Doyle quickened his steps. Rushing up behind her just as she reached the dining room, he placed his hands on her hips, spun her around to face him and pushed her lightly against the side of the table. She gasped with surprise, but didn't object. Having her firmly pinned in place, he kissed her hungrily. First her lips, then her neck, all the way across her décolletage, making it clear that she wouldn't be left wanting this evening. Her mouth responded in kind, as did her ample bosom, which was promptly shoved in his face. Her entire body encouraged his ministrations.

When he pulled away, he could see the cloudy desire that had descended over her features. He loved seeing that look on her face; he loved being the one to put it there. By now, her dress had slid all the way to the floor, and she stood only in her strapless black bra and panties. "Doyle," she throatily said his name. "Don't you dare stop."

He grinned as he hooked an arm around her waist, walking them back a few more steps toward the bedroom, then surprised her again by dramatically sweeping her into his arms as if she was a starlet from an old film.

Cordelia let out an excited squeal as she was lifted into her lovers arms. He, in turn, only growled with the promise of things to come. Their eyes were locked together as Doyle held her in his arms and strode over the bedroom threshold, kicking the door closed behind them.

* * *

 **A/N - I LOVE YOU, dear readers. All of you. (Yes, even those who dislike half of what I write, ha!) As much as I wanted to respond to the "wall of text" from a few chapters back, I also want to let the rest of the story speak for itself, since it's been complete for a while and I'm far too stubborn (read also, lazy) to change it now. Luckily, some of the complaints about Cordelia's usefulness and her inequality with Doyle will be addressed and rectified by the end of the season. (Maybe even a *teensy* bit in this episode, yes?)**

 **To be clear, I understand what the big disconnect is from your perspective, dear 'guest.' Show-Cordy eventually became defined by all the things that initially belonged to Doyle: the visions, the empathy, the confidant/BFF to Angel, the human who became part-demon at the age of 21. She was his legacy after he was gone. Keeping Doyle in the picture and letting him keep all those things, meant Cordy got nothing but a boyfriend, a cat and a few sword lessons. I see the point, I accept the criticism that my Cordy is a less powerful version of her onscreen counterpart (physically, at least). Fair enough. But, my Cordy isn't supposed to be exactly the same as show-Cordy. She is different because circumstances are different and, frankly, because I want her to be different. My Cordy does have a *thing* but it isn't visions or superpowers or genius levels of wisdom. It's simply to be... _human_. That's a pretty important *thing* in a world where so many others are lacking and desiring humanity. And it's the *thing* I find most relatable about her, which is probably why I tend to write her the way I do.**

 **But,** **don't worry, I don't translate human to weak or irrelevant. Humans can still totally kick ass...**

* * *

 **Now onto my friendly neighborhood Doyle-hater. I'm not going to argue the interpretation, although it is the polar opposite of my intention. Fiction is subjective, so I'll have to accept that you're picking up on things I didn't purposely put out there. In my ever-so-humble opinion, I think you *may* be coming down too hard on poor ol' Doyle, but it's your prerogative to do so. :p**

 **Yes, I interpret Doyle as a deeply flawed man. He makes A LOT of mistakes even when his heart is in the right place (and it usually is). He has a tendency to be a bit overbearing in relationships (a trait I maintained from canon-Doyle, who was once accused of cutting Harriet's meat for her), but I really do believe that instinct comes from a place of love, not a place of control. He's chock full of insecurities and regrets, all of which I find interesting and endearing, but to each their own. Where I'm going to have to fight you is the "abusive" comment. He's not. Not even close. And it's a bit of a pet peeve of mine when that word is thrown around in fandom regarding characters/relationships that are nothing of the sort.**

 **In terms of Doyle withholding the fact that he started talking to his old contacts... you bring up a good point regarding their agreement not to keep secrets, but I also think that's an unrealistic goal. (And a bore from a storytelling perspective, but I won't use that as an excuse). Cordelia stipulated it was "the personal stuff" she wanted to know, not necessarily every single thing ever. But, semantics aside, even couples that love and trust each other occasionally tell little white lies or, in this case, omit parts of the truth. Cordy isn't sharing her difficulties with the visions to avoid Doyle's guilt and worry. So too, Doyle doesn't advertise his dabbling in the underworld so Cordy doesn't worry about his safety. Sure, he also doesn't want her to be mad, because OF COURSE he doesn't want her to be mad. I'm not saying it's his best decision ever** **, b** **ut it's also not an expressly selfish act, nor a massively punishable offense. If you want to see it as a major betrayal or insult to Cordelia's character, I can't change that, but I have it on good authority that Cordelia doesn't see it that way. ;) I purposely peppered in a number of moments that make it clear she *does* know what Doyle's been up to (although, you may not have gotten to those chapters, when you wrote that particular review). She's a perceptive gal, that Cordy, and it's a pretty poorly-kept secret.**

 **tl;dr. Doyle is** **a character with many layers, which layer you choose to focus on is entirely up to you.**

 **And thank you for reading. It means a lot that I can keep you guys engaged in this MASSIVE undertaking regardless of interpretation. xx**


	38. Couplet, Part 1

**38\. Couplet, Part I**

"Great! See you tonight!" Cordelia said into the phone, before hanging it up and returning to the series of open books she was supposed to be studying. Amongst the piles of reading material and office supplies on her desk, sat the framed cruise ship brochure—a reminder that, _someday_ , she and Doyle would actually take a vacation.

Someday wasn't today, however.

"Where ya going tonight?" Doyle wondered as he passed by her desk, struggling to open a child-proof bottle of aspirin. His face contorted in all manner of ways, before he gave up, at which point Cordelia held out a hand without looking up.

He passed her the bottle and she expertly twisted it open, handing it back to him. "I'm not going anywhere—we're having company."

Doyle poured a few pills into his open palm and swallowed them dry. He stood there an extra beat, waiting for Cordelia to offer details, since her plans apparently included him. "Aaaand who would that be?" He finally asked.

"Harry and Michael." Cordelia answered matter-of-factly. "I invited them for dinner."

"You what…?" Doyle sputtered, managing to choke on the pills that had already made it halfway down his esophagus. "Harry, as in _my_ Harry? The one I was married to?"

"And Michael, as in the guy she's shacking up with." Cordelia added, using the point of her finger as an unspoken exclamation.

Doyle was doing that thing where his mouth hung open and his brows scrunched in an unnatural pattern. Clearly, he was baffled by Cordelia's choice of dinner guests. After forming many words he never spoke, he finally settled on, " _Why?!"_

"Why not?" Cordelia deflected with a shrug, finally lifting her eyes to his. "Harry wanted to see us and we had no other anniversary-related plans. We've been far too busy learning everything we never wanted to know about the demon we killed last night, just in case it wasn't a solo act—and, for the record, I'm glad we decided not to celebrate in February; it's no longer accurate when you adjust for the break up." She waved her hand in the air as if this was unimportant. "Anyway, I figured we could spend this completely average non-anniversary evening with some friends."

Shaking his head, Doyle sat down on the edge of her desk with a thump and placed the bottle of aspirin down beside him. "I don't think it's a good idea, Cordy." He folded his arms across his chest and gazed out toward the reception area. "I mean, I don't have to remind ya what happened last time I palled around with Harry's new beau, yeah?"

"Did you just call him her 'beau?' What year is this?" Cordelia chortled in reply. "Michael is completely human; I doubt there's any danger of him wanting to eat your brain." Her finger had been trailing over the small print in front of her; it paused, and she tapped the center of the page. "Unlike Senih'D demons, who are _big_ fans of organ meat."

"I don't even know the guy." Doyle complained.

"Harry's been with him for over a year now." Cordelia reasoned, with an air of judgment, as if Doyle should know someone who was dating his ex-wife for that long a period of time. "It shouldn't be a big deal. You and Harry are friends, Harry and I get along great, and now we'll get to know Michael, too."

"Yeah, and the basis for this wonderful relationship we all have is that we aren't forced to sit around a dinner table and make small talk." Doyle griped.

"If I don't have a problem with your ex-wife and her boyfriend coming to dinner, then why do you?" Cordelia challenged, with a slight raise of a brow. "You're not feeling _insecure_ , are you? Because this guy replaced you…"

"It's not like that." Doyle said truthfully. "I'm happy she's happy—I want that for her. But, I'd rather her be happy somewhere other than our apartment—being friendly with an ex and actually _socializing_ with 'em are two very different things."

"Well, suck it up because they're coming at seven." Cordelia replied, slapping the book she'd been reading closed and tossing it aside. She looked up at Doyle with a smug grin. "And you're cooking."

A scowl fell over Doyle's face; he mouthed a repetition of her words, clearly put out by their evening plans. He didn't, however, move from the side of her desk, choosing to linger, sifting through one of the various piles of books she had stacked there. He could be such little boy sometimes, grumpy and restless. She was just about to assign him a book and shoo him away, when he lifted a fuchsia-colored rectangle from her pile of incoming mail and brought it closer to his face for further scrutiny.

Of course, he would notice _that_. It was such an eyesore.

She chose to ignore his dawdling, pulling up the _Demons, Demons, Demons_ online database to see if it had anything about Senih'D demons that the books didn't. That was until Doyle forced the piece of garishly colored mail directly into her scope of vision, pointing to the return address on the back. "Speaking of being chummy with the exes... This looks suspiciously like a wedding invite from yours—Xander Harris? Nice you two keep in touch. So, when is the event o' the season?"

Cordelia pushed the hideous envelope out of her way without batting an eyelash. "He's marrying a vengeance demon."

Doyle's brows lifted and he quickly tossed the envelope back into the mail bin as if it was a hot potato. "Think we can probably skip that one, yeah?"

Wesley came tottering out of his office distractedly, muttering to himself. He'd been a little out of sorts since the ballet—a little heartbroken, more like it. He made a beeline to the reception area, moving things around haphazardly as he conducted a careless search. Without missing a beat, Cordelia pulled a care-worn book from the pile on her desk, and rolled her chair in his direction, extending the heavy tome toward her boss. "What have I told you about leaving your books laying around, Wes?" She mock-reprimanded him. "They get mixed up with all the other books."

"Oh, yes." He said with relief as he took the aged volume and hugged it to his chest as if it was a precious gift. "Thank you."

Doyle hopped off Cordelia's desk and crossed toward the coffee pot, gesturing to the book Wesley was embracing—Doyle could tell by the strange lettering along the binding that it wasn't a book they used regularly. "What ya got there?"

"The Nyazian Prophecies." Wesley answered succinctly, turning away to putter back into his office.

Doyle froze in place never having a chance to pour himself a cup of coffee. He felt his blood run cold and he slowly turned his head in Wesley's direction, watching as the tall Englishman settled back behind his desk, flipping through the mysterious book he'd just retrieved from Cordelia.

Abandoning his mission for caffeine, Doyle slinked toward Wesley's doorway, trying to act casual, despite his now-racing pulse and the cold sweat that had broken out across his forehead. Leaning in the doorway with his arms folded, he tried to appear as he always did—vaguely interested at best. In reality, there was nothing he wanted to know more than this. "I, ah… thought everything was stolen the night Connor was born."

"It was." Wesley confirmed, peeking up at Doyle over his glasses. "But that doesn't mean we should stop looking for answers."

"And y'think the answers are in that book?" Doyle queried, trying to get a better look at the cover—in case he should need to steal it. He was leading the witness, but switched to badgering. "Or, are ya just looking for something to take your mind offa… _other_ _things_."

Wesley flinched. It was nearly imperceptible, but Doyle saw it. He hadn't meant to be cruel—to add salt to Wesley's wound where Fred was concerned. But, Doyle also had an objective that trumped Wesley's hurt feelings.

"It's not a full translation." Wesley clarified after he'd recovered. "It's a small fragment, but in conjunction with other sources—scholars who've studied the text over the years, bits of translation and analysis. It'll take me some time to collect and cross-reference everything, but eventually I'll learn what we need to know."

"Listen, bud, even if Connor's got some grand destiny in the future—odds are it won't happen 'til he's outta diapers, yeah?" Doyle argued. "Maybe we let him be a kid for a while; let Angel be a dad. Ask the big questions later."

Wesley raised his head fully this time, eying Doyle critically. "This isn't just about Connor—although, I admit, researching his role in all this is a priority. His birth is part of the Tro-Clon, the bringer of—"

"The bringer of the apocalypse. Yeah, I know the drill." Doyle replied with a frown. For a brief period of time, he'd thought he was off the hook—that they were all off the hook—when the scrolls were stolen. He should've known Wesley would find a way to persevere with the research. It's what he did. Broken heart or no broken heart.

Of course, if Wes had gotten the girl, he might be too distracted to bother with the scroll. Maybe Doyle should've let Cordelia meddle after all.

At least Doyle hadn't gotten so cocky that he'd absconded with Cordelia on their little pleasure cruise—that could have led to disaster. It was obvious now that Doyle needed to be here for this next part. He needed to watch. He needed to warn. He needed to intervene with force, if it came to that.

He really hoped it wouldn't come to that.

"Can we close the case on the Senih'D demon?" Wesley's voice cut back into Doyle's thoughts, although he'd dropped his head back into his pile of books by this point.

"Cordy and I are still working on it. Y'know… maybe we could use a little more help out here." Doyle hinted. Perhaps, if he offered Wesley another distraction—a series of other distractions—he could delay things. Or even stall them entirely. That wasn't a bad plan—Doyle was very good at being a distraction.

"Where are Fred and… Gunn _?"_ Wesley inquired, his voice catching ever-so-slightly on the latter name, belying the stab of pain it probably caused him.

"Breakfast, I assume." Doyle answered. _Like they usually are_ , he added to himself.

Wesley shook his head, and there was a subtle snort that accompanied the gesture. "Then I rather suggest you page them."

* * *

"The chicken was delicious, Francis." Harriet complimented politely, before placing her fork down beside her nearly-empty plate. "You've come a long way since the tea kettle incident."

"Let's not be airing old dirty laundry now." Doyle said jokingly, feigning embarrassment. "The past is the past."

So far, the night had actually been rather pleasant. He eyed the blonde man seated at Harry's left who was laughing courteously as he polished off his second helping of Doyle's specially prepared Rosemary Chicken. It was his Aunt Trudy's recipe—a real people pleaser.

Professor Michael Tiptin turned out to be a likable guy, with his slightly unkempt blonde hair and his top button unbuttoned. He didn't really look—or act—the part of a stuffy history professor. Laid back and amiable, Michael had plenty to talk about outside of his chosen field of study. In fact, Doyle couldn't think of a single instance where the man had shared any knowledge of historical facts or tried to show off how highly educated he was. In other words, he was completely un-Wesley-like. Not that Doyle had a problem with Wesley being Wesley, but one of him was more than enough.

"The tea kettle incident?" Cordelia repeated Harry's words curiously, not wanting to let Doyle off the hook that easily. "Did Doyle have trouble mastering the art of boiling water back in the day?"

"Oh, he could boil water just fine." Harry answered, tossing a semi-apologetic grin in Doyle's direction. "Assuming he didn't forget to _add_ the water—he melted our first kettle into the burner. We ended up having to buy a whole new stove!"

"It was just one time." Doyle defended himself. "Coulda happened to anyone."

"The kitchen's a dangerous place." Michael agreed, subtly gesturing with his fork. "I had a similar incident with a toaster once."

Cordelia shook her head. "Okay, well, I may not be the best cook in the world, but at least I haven't set anything on fire."

"Besides the _food_." Doyle mumbled under his breath, earning a swat on the arm for his smart mouth.

She was laughing. They were all laughing. This had been easier than Doyle thought it would be. Maybe they'd even have to do it again sometime… at least, that was what Doyle had been thinking right before he saw Harry turn to Michael, silently communicating something with her eyes.

As a unified front, the couple turned toward their dinner hosts, and Harriet took the lead. "Thank you again, for having us over. It's been such a nice evening." She said, her smile of thanks directed toward Cordelia, before her eyes trained in Doyle's direction. "There's actually a reason we wanted to see you both…"

Holding his ex-wife's gaze, Doyle maintained a neutral demeanor. He suspected he knew what Harriet was about to announce. He hadn't been expecting it to happen tonight, but he knew it was bound to come at some point. Unlike last time, he felt prepared. More than that, he felt accepting of what was to come. Especially now that he knew Michael was a decent guy. Doyle wouldn't hesitate to give his blessing this time, if that's what Harry was seeking.

"We're moving to Sunnydale!" Harriet declared with an overly bright smile.

"Sunnydale?" Doyle echoed, wondering if he'd missed the part about them being engaged. He'd been expecting matrimony, not relocation to the Hellmouth.

"Interesting choice." Cordelia commented.

"I've just accepted a position at UC Sunnydale." Michael explained, as Harry reached over to affectionately pat him on the shoulder and his land lifted to cover hers. "I asked Harriet to join me and lucky for me, she agreed."

"I was already planning on taking a sabbatical." Harriet continued, with a smile that said there was more to the story—it was one of those smiles couples shared when they had a secret. Doyle knew it all too well. "I'm writing a book, and it may require more field research."

"Well, there's certainly no short supply of fields in Sunnydale, or demons for that matter." Cordelia mentioned—a con in most people's books, but Harry wasn't most people.

"I know!" Harriet replied excitedly, her honey-blonde curls bouncing. "Rarely do you find such a hotbed of diverse demonic activity in one location. We were there last weekend, it's incredibly charming. A real diamond in the rough."

"Sure… aside from the diamond being the _actual_ mouth of Hell, it's downright idyllic." Cordelia agreed.

"Harriet mentioned you grew up there." Michael jumped in, his own enthusiasm brewing. "I was hoping—well, _we_ were hoping you could tell us more about the place. What the school district is like… are there any neighborhoods in particular that are more family friendly? We're looking to buy—maybe we could run a few listings by you?"

The line of questioning was awfully specific, Doyle noticed. Michael wasn't just asking about real estate, he was asking _family-related_ things. That implied not only a woman and a man, husband and wife, but a child. Again Doyle had to wonder if he hadn't missed a significant part of the conversation. He could plainly see Harriet's empty ring finger. And she didn't look even a little bit pregnant… which didn't mean she wasn't, only that she wasn't far enough along to show.

"Oh, we were wondering about the safety issues, too." Michael added, snapping his fingers as the thought came to him. "I know there was some trouble at the high school a few years back."

"Buffy brought the mortality rate way down." Cordelia answered distractedly. She was obviously thinking the same thing as Doyle. She had answered the question, but Doyle could see her eyes darting around Harry's midsection. She segued into the more direct approach she was accustomed to, leaning her chin on her palm curiously. "She's the slayer; I can make an intro—so, there's gonna be a family, huh?"

"Oh." Michael's face changed as he realized the impression he'd given the others. "No—Harry's not…" He laughed nervously, his face turning slightly crimson as he deferred to Harriet. "Maybe I should've let you ask the questions."

Harry merely smiled, again placing a hand on Michael's shoulder, this time giving it a little squeeze. "It's okay." She said pleasantly, before turning back to the couple across the table. "I'm not pregnant." She clarified. "But, Michael and I are planning to adopt. We've already filed the paperwork. Unfortunately, there's a lengthy waiting period. In the meantime, we're preparing for our new arrival…" She paused and her eyes were laced with uncertainty as she finished in a timid voice. "We, um… we got married last week. Down at City Hall. It was kind of spontaneous, we haven't even bought rings yet."

"Oh. Wow. That's…" Cordelia uttered, as her head subtly swung in Doyle's direction; she was gauging his response. " _Such_ great news. You're just… always with these wedding surprises!"

Harry was biting her lip, also staring at Doyle. Michael was the only one who wasn't aptly focused on Doyle's face, which had, by this time, slowly drained of all color.

"Ya coulda led with the marriage bit, Harry." Doyle stated, trying not to sound too annoyed by her unnecessary coyness.

"I didn't want it to be like last time." Harriet answered almost a little apologetically. She'd been very obviously trying not to divulge this piece of information, which was ironic, because her marital status wasn't the thing that had sent Doyle reeling.

It was something else entirely. Something that struck much closer to home.

"Congratulations." Doyle said abruptly, pushing out his chair and removing himself from the table. He gestured toward the kitchen as his feet carried him hastily in that direction. "Think this calls for a toast, yeah? I'll see what I can dig up."

He fled the dining room, letting his breath sting in his lungs until he'd made it into the relative safety of the kitchen. Only then did he exhale. He clutched the side of the counter, willing this involuntary feeling to be purged from his body.

Just when he thought he was out…

"Francis." Harriet's soft voice floated over his shoulder as she entered the kitchen behind him. "Are you alright? I'm really sorry to have blindsided you _again_ —it wasn't supposed to happen this way."

Doyle stood still, not turning to face her, debating whether or not to lie. He could easily play it off, grab a bottle and some glasses, and force her back into the dining room to celebrate the fact that Harriet would finally have everything she ever wanted. He could do that, but instead he decided on honesty.

"Adoption?" He said in a slightly pained voice. "Ya really want that?" He turned to face her then, so she could see what was bothering him. It wasn't her surprise marriage, it was the memory of theirs crumbling. "I thought…"

"I know what you thought." She responded. Her voice was kind but with her own traces of regret. "That I was only pitying you when I suggested that we adopt."

"Yeah." He admitted, rubbing a hand through his hair. "I assumed ya wanted to avoid my rather undesirable gene-pool—not that I blamed ya for it or even disagreed. I just didn't want ya to have to give up anything on my account. Especially not a thing like having kids of your own."

"That's what adoption is." Harriet told him, and he was fairly certain that was the same argument she'd used way back when, he just hadn't been listening. "I'd have my own child, and at the same time I'd be giving a home to a child who really needs one—it's something I've always wanted to do. And Michael agreed right away. The truth is, Francis, when you and I discussed having biological children… that was really more for your sake than mine. I knew how badly _you_ wanted that."

He laughed then—a dry, humorless laugh. "That Michael—he's really something." He stated, letting the tension ease out of his shoulders. "I think ya finally found the right one, Harry."

Harry choked up as she absorbed his complimentary words, a smile and tears came simultaneously. "I do, too."

Doyle nodded, continuing to dole out his approval. "I want ya to know, I am happy for ya. For real, this time." He assured her, and then held out a hand. "Not that Michael wants my blessing, but he has it… on one condition—he doesn't invite me to any belated bachelor parties."

"Oh, please, you can't have a bachelor party after you're already married." Harry said with a laugh, and then her face changed as she second-guessed herself. "But, just in case, you're definitely not invited."

Smiling broadly now, Doyle opened up his arms and gestured for her to come in for a hug, which she did happily. He could let the last few remaining threads of regret ebb away—they weren't needed anymore. This time, he knew Harry would be happy. And Doyle, well, he already was…

 _Bzzzzz_. _Bzzzzz_. _Bzzzzzz_.

"Um, Francis… you're vibrating." Harry said, stepping back and pointing at his belt loop, which held his work pager. Unclipping the device, Doyle took a peek at the display. It wasn't Wesley as he'd expected. It was from Angel and it included an ominous '911'.

"Ah… sorry to cut the evenin' short, but Cordy and I are needed at the office." He announced apologetically. "Mind if we skip dessert?"

"We can't _skip_ dessert." Harry insisted, looking exaggeratedly horrified. Then a warm smile broke out on her face. "We can, however, take a rain check."


	39. Couplet, Part 2

**39\. Couplet, Part II**

"Ow!" Doyle cried, jumping as the sting of antiseptic hit his chest.

"Don't be such a baby." Cordelia reproached, even as she took pity on him, lightly blowing on the injured area. The stinging subsided, as it always did. "Better?"

"Yeah." He agreed, looking down at the nasty-looking wound the tree creature had left behind, when it had identified him as a hero—a hero worth sucking the life from. Thankfully, it had seen the err of its ways and switched over to Angel instead, and so ending its life in the process. After all, there was nothing but death to be drawn from a vampire.

Carefully, placing a rectangle of gauze over Doyle's wound, Cordelia skillfully attached it to his skin with medical tape. "I promise to apply extra kisses later." She whispered teasingly. "For now, I'd better go see if Angel requires any bandaging." She gently smoothed down her handiwork and collected all her first aid gear to move onto the next patient.

Doyle could see Angel meandering around on the opposite end of the lobby, sporting his own torn shirt. He'd been cagey and distant all evening. If it wasn't for the page he'd sent earlier, instructing Doyle to meet him at the killer tree's lair, Doyle would think that Angel didn't want him around. Strange. Stranger so was the fact that they hadn't really spoken in days—not since the ballet.

"Doyle, are you okay?" Fred asked as she exited Wesley's office. She and Gunn had been debriefed by the boss man, and despite the trouble they'd gotten into with the tree, it sounded like the client was happy with the results—aka, her fiancée was alive and well. Congratulations were in order—although, Doyle noticed that it was only Fred who was leaving the office, as Gunn was still inside.

"Good as new." Doyle responded, pushing himself out of the chair he'd been sitting in and moving a step closer to her. He stuck a finger through the hole in his shirt and wiggled it around. "Most o' me, anyway."

"I hear it's a popular look with you hero-types." She replied, with a cockeyed grin as she headed off toward the staircase. "Thanks again, y'know… for _everything_." He caught the double-meaning behind her words; she wasn't just thanking him for his sloppy rescue efforts this evening. "Goodnight."

Doyle watched her go, weighed down by battle exhaustion, but lightened by something else. _Someone_ else who she carried with her wherever she went. Doyle knew that feeling very well.

Speaking of that someone else, Doyle could hear the murmur of voices from within Wesley's office, the voices easily wafting to his ears as he shuffled toward the reception area, more interested in the scene in front of his eyes than the one he was overhearing.

"I'm not so sure that's any of your business." Gunn was saying, and it didn't take much for Doyle to guess what they were discussing.

"No. You're probably right." Wesley agreed. "Still... she could get hurt. I trust that won't happen?"

Across the lobby, Doyle watched as Cordelia made an attempt to dress Angel's wound. She was needling the vampire—poking at his torn shirt, insisting that he needed some sort of medical attention. He kept his head bowed low, gently rebutting her efforts.

"What are you, her brother?" Gunn's voice continued to provide Doyle with a soundtrack. He was clearly put out by Wesley's little lecture.

"Apparently." Wesley answered with resignation. He sounded accepting of the situation, but that probably didn't make it any easier for him.

From across the room, Cordelia threw up her hands in disapproving acceptance. She was giving up the fight, leaving Angel to bleed on his own, if that's what he wanted to do.

Inside Wesley's office, there was a beat of awkward silence before Gunn finally spoke again. "Wesley, I—"

"She chose." Wesley stated, cutting Gunn off before he could say anything that might inadvertently pour salt in the wound. "It's just important to me that she's taken care of."

"She will be." Gunn promised.

"Good." Wesley said in a voice that made it clear the conversation was over. Doyle stayed motionless by the front counter, he had caught Angel's eye for a brief moment and was disheartened when the vampire quickly looked away.

From Wesley's office, there was only silence, but Gunn was still in there, probably debating on whether or not he should say anything more. When Gunn finally did walk out, he didn't stop to address Doyle or make small talk with Angel. He headed straight for the front door and to the night beyond.

Angel was now receding into the shadows, apparently too unnerved to be in the same room as his best friend. Doyle blew out a long frustrated breath, pushed off the counter in front of him and wandered toward Wesley's office. As was his usual way, he didn't venture much further than the threshold, leaning there as if he was part of the décor.

The Englishman was hunched over his desk once again—as Doyle had seen him earlier that morning. He didn't look up at Doyle, but it was a good bet Wesley knew he was standing there and purposely ignoring his presence.

"Tough break." Doyle commented, his right forearm balanced against the frame of the door. "Not getting the girl."

"What would you know about it?" Wesley replied; he sounded more exhausted than he had in his previous conversation and short on patience. "You got the girl. Twice, in fact."

"Doesn't mean I've forgotten what rejection feels like." Doyle pointed out. "Listen, bud. We don't have to have a heart-to-heart or anything, but I was just thinking you'd need a friend right now. That's all."

Wesley paused, placing his pen down in the crease of his book and lifting his tired eyes toward Doyle. "I do apologize." He said sincerely, rubbing his eyes without removing his spectacles. "Your friendship is appreciated, Doyle. As is your dedication to the team… I hope your dinner plans weren't completely ruined."

"Only dessert." Doyle assured his boss, gesturing toward the mounds of books on Wesley's desk, which seem to have multiplied in the last few hours. "Quite a collection you're building there—found anything of interest?"

"Not yet." Wesley said, taking in the rather impressive pile of reading material. "But I intend to be diligent in my efforts."

"I'm sure o' that." Doyle replied, wishing that wasn't the truth.

He turned to leave Wesley's office doorway, keeping his head down as he moved past the reception area, and nearly walking straight into a large, vampire-shaped object.

"Doyle." Angel said, causing Doyle to stop short and lift his head with surprise. Had he been paying attention, his demon senses would have tipped him off to Angel's continued presence in the lobby. But, he had been distracted by more legitimate concerns of the future. Doyle looked out at the expanse of the empty lobby, pondering how Angel had managed to slink away into the shadows and then silently reappear—he wasn't really pondering much. Stealth was one of Angel's finest skills, after all.

"Hey, man." Doyle addressed his friend with an uneasy chuckle. "I thought ya were avoiding me."

"I haven't been… uh, I mean, that's…" Angel laughed unnaturally, shaking his head as if Doyle's words were ludicrous. "I'd never, haha... do… that."

"Relax—I was only kidding, man." Doyle said, narrowing his eyes. "But now I see ya really _were_ avoiding me, which begs the question—what for?" Angel's eyes had darted to the ceiling and Doyle didn't bother to wait for an answer that he could already guess himself. "This is about the ballet, yeah? Listen, Cordy already told me the details, and if it's all the same to you, I don't needa hear 'em _ever_ again." He gave Angel a friendly slap on the bicep. "We're okay here."

"We are?" Angel asked uncertainly.

"O'course we are." Doyle assured his friend. "I mean, it's not like ya had a choice in the matter. Coulda been any of us who walked into that room. I don't recommend thinking about the possibilities for too long—could lead to some _highly_ disturbing mental imagery."

"Okay. We're good. That's… good." Angel stated, still appearing slightly off, despite his obvious relief. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an impressive wad of cash, extending it toward Doyle. "I, uh… I want you to have this." He pushed the cash into Doyle's hand. "Take Cordy on that vacation you guys are always talking about. You deserve it after everything that's happened—with the visions and Darla and everything that happened last year. Just… take her away. Enjoy life for a while."

Doyle gaped at the thick wad of bills in his hand. His brow was frozen in a bemused arch as he shifted his focus from the cash to his friend's face. "Things are worse than I thought if you're coughing up for a paid vacation." He scrutinized Angel's impassive features, still seeing evidence of the vampire's uneasiness. "I'm afraid to ask…" Doyle had spent so long worrying about Cordelia's feelings changing as a result of her heroic transformation, he hadn't really stopped to consider the terrifying prospect of Angel's feelings changing as well. He swallowed hard, bracing himself for the uncomfortable question he was about to utter out loud. "Is this 'cause ya have feelings for my girl?"

Angel's eyes went wide. "What?!" He choked in total disbelief, making it clear that he wasn't putting on any airs for Doyle's sake. "I don't have feelings for Cordelia! Other than platonic ones—actually, she's always felt like a sister to me. Maybe a niece." He paused, letting out a breath of air that he didn't need to take. "I mean—in that room, for a _very_ brief window of time, there were _other_ feelings. But, they weren't mine—I knew they weren't mine. _She_ knew they weren't mine— _right_?!"

Doyle nodded his head subtly, assuring Angel that Cordelia knew, urging him to continue.

"Then you came in and saw us and… you almost put a stake through my heart." Angel finished, his body becoming very tense and his voice getting lower. "That part felt real."

"I was possessed, too, man." Doyle replied, finally understanding why Angel hadn't been able to look him in the eye for days. Why he'd hoisted a wad of money on him now. "Had it just been me and you fighting in that room, I woulda just decked ya. _Repeatedly_. But… I could never come close to killing ya, man."

That made Angel smile, a true smile of relief. "That's always been your problem, Doyle—you're the only friend I have who won't promise to kill me."

Doyle reached out and gripped Angel by the shoulder. "And a friend still willing to die for ya." He promised, to make sure Angel knew that nothing had changed between them. They were still brothers. They'd always be. "You should take this back—keep it for Connor." Doyle said, handing Angel back the wad of bills. "Cordy and I _will_ be sailing into that sunset real soon, but for now, there's some other things we needa take care of first."

* * *

The clock ticked loudly on the wall overhead, but Wesley couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear anything except for the sound of his own beating heart as he pieced together a fragment of the Nyazian prophecy. He'd been working all day, all evening and now more than half the night. Even Angel had long since retired with Connor tucked into a crib beside him. But Wesley was far from sleepy—tired, yes. Exhausted, even. But wide-awake, and more than a little obsessed with his new pet project.

He was close—he could feel it.

His finger trembled ever so slightly as it moved across the words on the page. They were in Ga-shundi, which out of all the demonic languages he could encounter, was one of the less complicated ones.

 _The father_ … _the son._

Those words were already written down in his notebook. It was the middle part that was giving him trouble.

Or had been. Up until now.

Wesley sat up straight, staring disbelievingly at the Ga-Shundi text as it finally began to make sense. A sick sort of nonsensical sense. "No." Wesley muttered to himself. "That can't be right." And yet, deep in his gut, he knew it probably was.

The inky tip of his ballpoint pen hovered over the blank note paper for several long moments, before Wesley finally filled in the blank. He gulped hard against the lump that developed in his throat. The horrific words staring back up at him.

 _The father will kill the son._

The power of this revelation paralyzed Wesley for a moment, and then he began breathing rapidly as he reached for his rolodex, flipping hurriedly to Doyle's name. This wasn't the sort of thing Wesley wanted to carry alone. If anyone would know what to do—how to proceed—it was Doyle.

Wesley lifted the receiver from his phone and began dialing, not stopping to think about the absurdity of the hour. He had only one more digit to press—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." The voice was unfamiliar, and not only did it cause Wesley to freeze in place, but it caused a chill to run down his spine, especially when he looked up and saw the source.

Fumbling for the gun he kept taped to the underside of his desk, Wesley leaped backward, knocking over the desk chair he'd been sitting in only moments prior. He pointed the gun at the figure, trying to keep his arm from shaking.

"Hold your horses there, buddy. I come in peace… well, sorta." The demonic creature stated, holding up his hands as he took another step into Wesley's office. "Anyway, that gun can't hurt me."

"Who are you?" Wesley demanded, still not lowering the weapon. "What is your business here?"

"The name's Sahjhan." The creature said. His face was scarred and disfigured, making any semblance of facial expression impossible to discern. "Some call me the time-shifter—maybe you've heard of me?"

"No." Wesley stated, his suspicious eyes never leaving the robed figure. "Can't say that I have."

"Really?" Sahjhan asked disappointedly, gesturing to the shelves lining the walls of Wesley's office. "With all the books? I thought I'd make more of an impression on this century—you sure there's nothing on Sah-jhan? Two h's, both silent."

"Why don't you just tell me what it is I need to know?" Wesley suggested impatiently, his arm was getting tired, but there wasn't a chance that he'd lower his weapon.

"It's not the same… but fine." Sahjhan answered begrudgingly. "Member of the Granok species, evil by definition—figure I should just be upfront about that." He said matter-of-factly, as if he was mentioning the sky was blue. "But, right now, you and I happen to be on the same side."

"I very much doubt that." Wesley responded.

"But you don't doubt the prophecy, do you?" Sahjhan asked, the markings on his face arching upward as if they were brows.

That gave Wesley pause. He finally lowered his weapon, staring at this strange creature warily. "How do you know about the prophecy?"

"Like, I said. Time-shifter." He replied in a tone that clearly said "duh." "I know a lot of things—for instance, my being here, talking to you, is a big departure from your fated course. Unfortunately, this timeline isn't what it used to be. I was forced to improvise a bit—not something I enjoy doing. I've been watching, twiddling my incorporeal thumbs, waiting for you to get to the meaty stuff where the prophecy's concerned—that took longer than I thought it would. Rusty on the Ga-shundi, are we?"

The demon's strange words did little to assuage Wesley. Instead they sent a whole new level of panic through him. "What has been done to the timeline?"

"Maybe you should ask your pal Doyle." Sahjhan replied flippantly. "Doubt he'd tell you, though. He's usually pretty tight-lipped about that sorta thing."

The gun in Wesley's hand hung loosely at his side now, and he very nearly dropped it.

"I see I hit a nerve." Sahjhan remarked, pointing a finger at Wesley as he began to pace around the space in front of Wesley's desk, casually taking in the wall décor and other tchotchkes Wesley had strewn about. "Doyle won't tell you the truth, but I will… he isn't supposed to be here." The demon explained. "He should've died a few years back, passed his visions on to that girlfriend of his—and yet look at him now, alive and well. Living it up as number one telecom to the Powers and right hand man to the vampire with a soul. Talk about trading up on destinies."

"If you think I'd prefer a reality where Doyle was dead, you are sadly mistaken." Wesley snapped, the anger rising in him. He didn't like the way this creature was toying with him, playing on his insecurities. "He's a friend."

"Sure, I get that." Sahjhan replied. "But what kind of friend sits back and watches as his friends _suffer_?"

"He wouldn't." Wesley argued.

"He would and he has." Sahjhan countered, turning to face Wesley once again, moving toward the desk—and then walking straight through it, so he could look Wesley directly in the face from a closer proximity. "Doyle knows _everything."_ The demon insisted. "Every single thing that's happened since the day he was supposed to die until right now. He knows what's coming tomorrow, too. And the day after that. He saw it all a long time ago."

"That's not how the visions work... I-it's not possible." Wesley stammered, even as somewhere deep in his gut, he knew it was possible. Anything was possible in this world full of magic and mysticism. And Doyle seeing the future was actually the _least_ impossible thing in a sea of impossibilities.

The demon could see the change in Wesley, and knew he had struck a powerful chord. "Explains a lot, doesn't it?" He taunted, a malevolent smile twisting his lips. "The only thing it doesn't explain is why he's never told _you_ —not even when you became the boss of the whole operation. Why do you think that is? Are there some trust issues there?"

Wesley began to flash back to all the times Doyle had "guessed" things with no clear evidence or explanation. The half-demon's instincts were always so sharp, even when he'd had no vision to guide him. It now seemed rather obvious that he'd never been guessing. It wasn't instinct at all; it was _knowledge_.

That meant that everything that had happened—every _single_ thing—since Wesley had joined Angel Investigations wasn't mere happenstance. Doyle had been in the driver's seat all along. Subtly sometimes, overtly at others. As Angel's closest ally and confidant, as Cordelia's lover, as Wesley's comrade… there was no one in a better position than Doyle to control _everything_ and everyone.

So, why then had there been so much darkness; so much pain? Why had Angel been driven close to madness the previous year? Why had Wesley nearly been blown to kingdom come the year before that?

If Doyle had known, Doyle had let those things happen. Perhaps, he'd even willed them so.

Wesley didn't want to believe it. This man whom he'd trusted with his life on so many occasions, he couldn't be…

"A manipulator." Sahjhan declared. "That's what he is—the inside man. Doyle serves a higher power alright… but not _the_ Higher Powers. His life was spared and he's been in service to the Tro-Clon ever since."

"He's ushering forth the apocalypse?" Wesley questioned in disbelief, tasting the bitterness of those words on his tongue. Wishing he didn't find himself capable of believing them.

Sahjhan's terrifying grin widened, eyes still locked onto Wesley's. "And you're the only one who can stop him."


	40. Loyalty, Part 1

**40\. Loyalty, Part I**

Doyle kissed a trail along the back of Cordelia's slender shoulder as he spooned her from behind. They were lying in their bed with the early morning sun sneaking through the curtains. His left arm was wrapped snuggly around her naked flesh, and her body was flush against his. He wished he could spend the entire day just… like… _this_.

"Mmmm…. morning." She mumbled sleepily, wriggling against him as she slowly became conscious in his arms.

"Morning, Princess." He murmured back, between the kisses he'd been plying to her skin. He'd made it to her neck, and switched to gentle bites, which he knew she preferred.

Her eyes must have fluttered open enough to see the clock on the bedside table, because the next utterance from her lips was a groan. "Uuuuugh." Her head turned into the pillow, shading her eyes from the sun and the truth. "That can't be the right time—can you use your powers of time manipulation to give us another hour?"

"Done." Doyle replied, continuing to nuzzle against her, and letting his hand graze across her abdomen on the way to her left breast, where it came to a rest. "O'course, as y'know, my powers only work here—so we'll still be late for work."

She laughed huskily, her body responding to his touch. "I think I'm okay with that."

Doyle moved to her jawline, kissing a path there until she turned over in his arms, granting him access to her lips and tongue, which he had been seeking all along. And then she gave him full access to the rest of her. She was primed, ready for him and he'd woken up ready; he'd been dreaming of her even before he'd woke. They made love in the warm cocoon of their bed. Unrushed, even as the sun continued to beckon to them. Slow and quiet, aside from the occasional gasp of pleasure.

Cordelia reached her peak first, her muscles tightening and then releasing in soft, euphoric waves, taking Doyle with them into his own release.

Afterwards, they lay together satisfied, still unwilling to hurry into the morning routine. Their noses were touching as they faced each other, heads sharing a single pillow. Cordelia's hand was lazily brushing against the thick mess of hair on Doyle's chest; her fingers danced lightly over the bandage that still clung to his skin, protecting the wound beneath.

"That was nice." She sighed. "What's the occasion?"

"Didn't think we needed one." Doyle responded, running his hand over her bottom. "Aside from the obvious."

"I know…" She said with a throaty laugh. "But it's been a while since we shirked our responsibilities for morning gratification."

"I wouldn't call it shirking." Doyle countered. "Wes can run the place for a few hours without us." He lifted his index finger tapping the side of his head. "And I'd know if we got a 911 call, yeah?"

Her eyes were scanning over Doyle's face, and she raised her fingers from his chest to his temple, where his finger had been a moment earlier. Her thumb gently caressed the area, as the questions migrated from her eyes to her lips. "So… this has nothing to do with Harry?"

Scrunching his features in confusion and annoyance, Doyle recoiled slightly. "Ah, I can assure ya, I haven't spent any time in our bed thinking of my ex-wife. Not until right now, that is." He searched Cordelia's expression and found it to be neither injured nor perturbed in any way, which only made her question seem that much more absurd. "Why would y'think a thing like that?"

"I didn't mean it _that_ way. I know you're not pining or anything." Cordelia clarified. "I just thought, with Harry moving on in such a big way, you might _need_ me. Y'know? To make yourself feel better."

"I always need ya, darlin'." He promised. "But not in the way you're implying. I woke up wanting _you_ and nothing but you. So help me God." He made a cross gesture over his heart to show her how sincere he was being. "Matter o' fact, that's how I wake up most mornings. Case you were curious."

"And yet you haven't woken me up like _that_ in ages." She lightly chided.

"Ah…" He averted his eyes for a moment. "I guess I got used to treading a little more careful-like. Not that I blame ya for your, ah… _lack_ _of_ _interest_ there for a while."

"Lack of interest?!" She echoed disbelievingly. "When have I ever pushed you away? I mean, aside from when I'm in a bad mood or have a headache— _ooooh_." She said, finally catching on. "I get it. That's your not-so-subtle way of saying vision-Cordy didn't put out."

"I don't think I'd phrase it quite like that, no." Doyle answered with a cautious chuckle.

"Let's call a spade 'a spade,' shall we?" She scoffed. "You were too busy worrying about the possibility of my brain exploding to see that I still had needs."

"I was a bit preoccupied by the whole brain-exploding bit." Doyle admitted, adding an affectionate wink for good measure. "And maybe I was also under the mistaken impression the only _needs_ ya had were for designer things."

She scooted closer to him, keeping her hand on his cheek. "Well, good thing the visions are back where they're supposed to be. The migraines-from-hell are all yours again, buddy—don't even _think_ about smooching 'em back over to me." She threatened with a teasing smile. "And you can make up for your insensitive guy-ness by making me late for work _a lot_ more often."

Doyle moved to kiss her in reply, lacing the gesture with the truth of what he'd said. His body began to tingle with desire once again, but he pushed the feeling away. The real world had already permeated their happy little bubble, and he knew it was time to get back to it.

Punctuating their morning dalliance with a peck on the tip of her nose, Doyle unwrapped himself from Cordelia's long limbs, rolled toward his side of the bed and threw back the covers. Lifting his hands, he began rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Don't you think it's kinda weird?" Cordelia mused as she stood from her own side of the bed. She spoke as if Doyle was supposed to know what she was talking about, which, of course, he didn't. Being that her question had a rhetorical ring to it, he assumed she was going to continue. "So many people are getting married lately—first Kelly and Ben, now Harry and Michael; Xander and Anya are _almost_ married… is there something in the water?"

Doyle furrowed his brow and let out an audible sigh. "Am I supposed to know where you're going with this?"

"I'm not going anywhere." She shrugged as she rounded the bed and headed for her closet to retrieve her flowery silk robe. "Just pointing out the unnaturally high volume of nuptials that have occurred recently. One might even call it a _confluence_ of weddings."

Doyle nodded, eyeing her curiously as she covered herself with the soft fabric. He hadn't yet moved from the side of the bed. "It's called growing up, Princess." He explained. "Phases of life and such—first everyone y'know gets married. Few years later half of 'em will be having kids, the other half'll be getting divorced."

"Oh, right." Cordelia said over her shoulder as she flounced toward the bedroom door. "Sometimes I forget how old you are."

"Hey." He called after her, before she'd stepped over the threshold. "If you're hinting at what I _think_ you're hinting at, this should probably be a longer conversation, yeah?"

Her smile widened as her eyelashes fluttered coquettishly. "I don't hint, Doyle. It's not my way."

* * *

"Rise and shine!" Cordelia said perkily from the doorway of Wesley's office, causing him to sit up at his desk and blearily blink up at her, his eyes still heavy with sleep. He stared down at the open book that had been serving as his pillow, hoping he hadn't drooled on the ancient pages.

"Ever plan on leaving this office, man?" Doyle wondered, his head popping into the doorframe beside Cordelia's.

"Wesley, I'm going to say this as someone who cares about you…" Cordelia continued, with a look of undisguised pity. "Get a life."

"I-I meant to…" Wesley stammered, trying to gain his bearings. Behind Doyle and Cordelia, Wesley could see Fred and Gunn come around the reception counter, hand in hand.

"Morning, Wesley!" Fred beamed, as the second couple came up behind the first one in his doorway. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"

"Yes, yes." Wesley mumbled unconvincingly.

"She thinks any day that starts with two breakfasts is beautiful." Gunn teased affectionately, lifting her hand to his lips and planting a kiss there. "And I think any day watching her eat two breakfasts is beautiful."

"I think Wesley's forgotten what _day_ looks like." Cordelia snarked, crossing her arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe. "It's been so long since he's seen it. Even Angel gets out more."

"What do I do?" Angel asked, joining the crowd in front of Wesley's office; he held Connor in his arms, and bounced the baby lightly. Wesley suddenly felt like he was in a much-unwanted spotlight with all his co-workers leering at him through the open door.

"There he is—there's my little munchkin!" Cordelia squealed, reaching to take Connor into her arms. "Come to Auntie Cordelia."

Angel gently rejected her efforts, choosing to keep Connor for himself. "Us boys have some important business to take care of this morning. Isn't that right, Uncle Doyle?"

"Well, pardon me—must've missed the 'No Girls Allowed' sign." Cordelia huffed as she traipsed off to take up occupancy behind her desk. Fred and Gunn also moved away from the door, lost in each other's dreamy smiles. Only Angel and Doyle were left, with Connor held between them.

"Can we tell him yet?" Angel asked Doyle in an excited voice. "I don't think I can wait anymore."

Doyle shrugged lackadaisically, taking a peek at his wristwatch. "Why tell him when we can show him, yeah?"

"Show me what?" Wesley inquired from his place behind the desk; he was getting a rather unsettled feeling from both Angel and Doyle's unusual demeanor.

"The beginning of the end." Doyle answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He gave Angel a slap on the back. "Go ahead, man—just like I told ya."

"Angel, what is this about?" Wesley wondered, staring at the vampire who lingered in his doorway, holding the squirming baby. Doyle casually leaned beside him with a smirk on his face, as if whatever was about to happen was incredibly amusing.

And then right before Wesley's horrified eyes, Angel morphed into his vamp face, and held up Connor as if he was a ragdoll. "Sorry, Wes—you tried. But what Doyle says goes." Angel snarled as he sunk his teeth into his son's neck and began to drink.

"That's it. That's exactly right." Doyle encouraged, flashing an "okay" sign with his fingers.

"Nooooo!" Wesley cried, leaping out of his seat.

His head popped up from the books he'd been sleeping on.

A dream. That's all it was. No one was looming in his doorway. Certainly not Angel feasting on the blood of his son. There were distant voices echoing throughout the lobby; his co-workers just now arriving for the workday.

Wesley sat up straighter, rubbing at the indent in his temple where the frames of his glasses had dug into his flesh.

"Hey, man." Doyle's voice carried into Wesley's office, followed by a "Morning, Wes. Sorry we're late," from Cordelia, who passed hurriedly on the way to her own desk.

"Oh, um… morning." Wesley replied, his nerves rattled by the dream he'd just had—or was it a vision? _Don't be foolish, Wesley, you aren't the one with visions_ , he chastised himself.

"Were ya here all night?" Doyle wondered, sauntering through the open door to Wesley's office, sipping from a cardboard take-out cup of coffee. The half-demon moved closer, subtly twisting his head to read some of Wesley's visible notes, which were hanging off the edge of the desk.

Reaching forward, Wesley hastily snatched the sheets of paper away from Doyle's prying eyes, acting as if he was stacking them into an organized pile. "Sorry—sorry. I just… it was getting out of order. It's all… _very_ specific."

"Uh huh." Doyle remarked, with only a slight furrow to his brow. His pale eyes skimmed over Wesley's haggard appearance and he looked more concerned than anything else. "Don't take this the wrong way, man—but ya seem kinda jumpy."

Doyle perched himself on the far corner of Wesley's desk, completely unaware that his presence was the very thing making Wesley jumpy at the moment. That and the endless stream of nightmares.

"I suppose I didn't sleep much." Wesley replied, sliding his newly shuffled pile of notes beneath one of the books closest to him, far away from where Doyle could catch a glimpse. "The night—it seems to have gotten away from me."

"That happens when the sun comes up." Doyle agreed, sizing up the other man. "There anything ya wanna talk about?" It felt like an odd question with added meaning behind it. Wesley bit his lip and looked up at the other man with apprehension.

Was Doyle digging for information? Or did he already know?

No, that was silly. Even if Doyle knew all the things Sahjhan claimed he knew, he couldn't possibly know about Sahjhan's visit to Wesley— _that_ wasn't part of any alternate timeline. It was the one solitary detail that Doyle was not privy to, which meant it was the only weapon that could be used against him… assuming Wesley needed a weapon.

"Not especially." Wesley deflected Doyle's minor inquisition, squaring his shoulders. "You?"

The other man's eyes narrowed momentarily, and then he shrugged. "Haven't had any visions, if that's what ya mean." Raising his coffee cup to his lips, Doyle took a sip. His skeptical eyes stayed focused on Wesley as he drank, and then he spoke again after he'd swallowed. "Y'know… ya should really get out more. Staying cooped up with all these musty books isn't good for a fella'."

Wesley nodded sharply, and Doyle hopped off the desk, moseying out the office door from which he'd come. As soon as he was gone, Wesley let out a deep breath, and slid his hidden paperwork out from under his books—his eyes once again scrutinizing the words he'd written the previous night.

 _The father will kill the son… Doyle knows._

Tipping his chair back, so he had a clear view through the window into the lobby, Wesley saw Angel walking down the stairs with Connor in his arms. Anyone who didn't know he was a vampire, wouldn't have seen anything but a doting father embracing his infant son. Wesley wished that was all he could see, but the words of the prophecy told him otherwise.

 _The father will kill the son._

Cordelia popped into view, meeting Angel and Connor halfway across the lobby. The luminescent smile on her face was visible even at this distance. She poked at Connor's little belly, and appeared to be happily cooing at the child as Angel proudly looked on, angling the baby toward her.

And then came Doyle. The dark-haired man approached the happy tableau, still holding his coffee in one hand. His free arm casually slid around Cordelia's shoulders as both she and Angel instinctively opened up their little circle to make room for him.

They always had, they always would. Doyle was a part of them.

 _Doyle knows._

The music of their laughter carried across the lobby, finding its way into Wesley's office, where the man with the growing knot in his stomach sat watching them. Worrying for them. Wishing this was all just a terrible mistake.


	41. Loyalty, Part 2

**41\. Loyalty, Part II**

"You risk your life, human, calling on the Loa. Perhaps what you really seek is death. The pain in your heart begs for it."

The voice of the Loa boomed throughout the empty parking lot of the drive-thru. Wesley stood at its feet, wondering how exactly he'd come to be at the mercy of… a giant hamburger.

"Then do it and be done." Wesley replied. "Nothing else will stop me."

"Simple mortal, your pain is just beginning." The Loa's goofy expression remained unchanged, but its tone was full of scorn. Its eyes boiled red. "Betrayal and agony lie in wait, and time is running out, yet still you ignore the question."

Wesley wanted to stop the prophecy from unfolding—that was the question he'd demanded of the all-knowing Loa. _How_?

That wasn't the question the Loa wanted to answer, nor was the Loa's answer what Wesley wanted to hear—he couldn't stop what had already begun. But Wesley had to believe there was a way to stop the falling dominoes midstream. He had to believe that he possessed both the knowledge and the know-how to prevent Angel from killing his son. And to thwart the end of days that would follow as a result.

Even if one of his most trusted allies was guiding it all into being.

"Alright then, when? _When_ will this happen?" Wesley relented, finally asking what he believed the Loa actually wanted him to ask.

"The first portent will shake the earth." The Loa answered unceremoniously. "The second will burn the air. The last will turn the sky to blood."

"An earthquake?" Wesley scoffed up at the smiling hamburger. "That's the first portent? We live California!"

"Earthquake, fire, blood." The statue reiterated, clearly displeased with its authority being questioned. "Be heedful of the signs, human, and trouble the Loa no more." With that declaration, the oversized hamburger's eyes lost their luster, it shrunk back down to its original size and all that stood before Wesley was an inanimate painted statue next to a closed burger stand.

"Rubbish." Wesley muttered, his shoulders drooping in frustration. He hastily shoved his compass and magical powders back into his pockets and trudged back across the empty lot toward the bushes that lined the far end.

Wesley nearly shrieked as a dark figure abruptly stepped through those bushes and blocked his path.

With an arm raised to his chest, feeling the thud of his rapidly-beating heart on the inside of his chest cavity, Wesley was relieved to see that he knew the individual. "Doyle." He breathed instinctively. But his relief quickly subsided, leading directly to anger. "Have you been following me?"

"Shouldn't I be?" Doyle countered; his expression appeared to match Wesley's—suspicion, anger, disappointment. "Pretty sure I just saw ya conversing with a giant hamburger—wanna explain what all that was about?"

"I-I was hungry." Wesley stammered, knowing the excuse was every bit as lame as it sounded to his own ears.

"It's closed." Doyle pointed out. "And ya forget who you're talking to, bud— I'm not so outta the loop these days. Ya start asking around 'bout a higher being like the Loa, y'don't think it'll get back to me?"

"I guess you've caught me." Wesley stated facetiously. "In a bid to solve our ongoing apocalypse problem, I've consulted a talking statue—afraid it wasn't very forthcoming on the matter." He began to side-step around Doyle, effectively putting an end to their conversation. "If you know any other fast-food mascots that'd be more helpful, do let me know."

Doyle was unmoved by Wesley's explanation. He raised a hand, flattening it against his boss' chest to keep him in place. "That thing coulda killed ya, Wes." He said in a more compassionate tone than Wesley was expecting to hear at that moment. Doyle sighed then, as if resigning himself to a decision he hadn't wanted to make. "Think it's time we had ourselves a little chat, yeah?"

"Alright…" Wesley agreed with guarded curiosity as Doyle dropped his hand.

"I know a lot more 'bout all this apocalypse stuff than I've let on." Doyle began, shoving one hand in his pocket as he spoke and gesturing with the other. "In fact, I know a lot more than that. Things those books o' yours don't."

"How?" Wesley heard himself ask tightly as a numbness of disbelief slowly crept through his extremities. _Sahjhan was right_.

There was a miniscule moment of hesitation from Doyle, which was amplified by the lack of breathing on Wesley's part. "It's a long story, man. The short version is I know the same way I know everything else—the Higher Powers wanted me to."

Wesley felt disappoint curdle in his chest, and only then did he realize he'd been testing Doyle, secretly hoping the half-demon would vindicate himself with words. Instead, the further hedging was like a silent gavel, declaring his guilt. Even so, Wesley coaxed him on. " _What_ do you know? Specifically."

Doyle ran his tongue over his bottom lip, clearly choosing his next words carefully. "For starters… the father will _not_ kill the son." Wesley' eyes involuntarily widened at the blunt declaration, which, in turn, provided inarguable confirmation—Sahjhan had been telling the truth. Doyle _did_ know—Doyle had known all along.

The Irishman registered the reaction from Wesley, and pushed on, gesticulating with his right hand to add emphasis to what had morphed from an admission to a plea. "It's important ya listen to me on this point, man—like, world-altering important. Forget all this Angel-killing-Connor nonsense. It doesn't mean anything. It's all made up. False prophecy."

Wesley felt Doyle's words sway him ever-so-slightly. He had begged the Loa for a way to save Connor and here was a man he had always trusted, assuring him that Angel was not a danger to his son. It was exactly what Wesley wanted to hear. It was exactly what he wanted to be true. This would make it easy to burn his notes into ash and simply forget he'd ever read those ominous words… leaving no one to try and stop them.

The dominoes. The prophecy. The world crumbling around them.

Tightening his jaw, Wesley reminded himself that Doyle had been the one to lead them to the Nyazian scroll and had hung on its translation with bated breath; it was a rather questionable action for someone who thought its prophecy full of lies. It was a contradiction. "There are several ancient texts and a mystical hamburger that seem to disagree on that point." Wesley responded coolly.

"They're wrong." Doyle argued, his pale green eyes sharply focused on Wesley. "Angel loves his son—he'd do anything to protect him. _Anything_."

"And that's all you have to share on the subject?" Wesley prodded, giving Doyle one more chance to offer a more compelling argument, or a single shred of proof for that matter. "Your word on behalf of the Powers That Be?"

"That should be more than enough, yeah?" Doyle said, taking a step back. "And I'll, ah… do ya the courtesy of keeping this between us. Wouldn't wanna cause any unneeded tension with the others, 'specially Angel."

"How generous of you, Doyle." Wesley replied facetiously. "I suppose that solves everything then. Goodnight." Sidestepping Doyle for real this time, Wesley pushed straight through the thick row of bushes, leaving the other man with nothing but an empty lot and the looming feeling of disappointment.

* * *

Clover crawled over Doyle's face for the second time, causing him to gently push her off to the side of his pillow. The cat was being abnormally clingy tonight, refusing to settle down in her normal spot, which was just north of Doyle's left shoulder.

"What's wrong?" Cordelia asked, as she closed the book she'd been reading and set it aside on the bedside table. She readjusted the pillow behind her, preparing to tuck herself in for the night.

"I dunno—something's got 'er on edge." Doyle answered, still trying to encourage the small feline to stay put. As soon as he let go, Clover scampered across his face for a third time and burrowed deep into the space between he and Cordelia.

"Not with her, with _you_." Cordelia clarified, although she did reach for the cat, lifting Clover into her arms to soothingly stroke her between the ears. "I know something's wrong so you're either gonna tell me what it is or—actually, there is no 'or.' So spill already."

Doyle chuckled dryly, extending an arm out in Cordelia's direction so she could scoot down and take occupancy on his shoulder. She did exactly that, keeping Clover in her arms so the end result was the three of them nestled cozily together.

"It's Wesley." He admitted, lazily tangling his fingers in the long waves of Cordelia's hair as he spoke. "I've been getting the feeling he doesn't trust me… and right now, that's a dangerous thing."

"Oh, c'mon, Doyle. I think we're long past the days of you marking your territory and Wes resenting your close personal relationship with the PTB." Cordelia remarked, continuing to stroke Clover's thick fur, until the cat seemed to relax a bit. "We're family. You guys might get on each other's nerves from time to time, but when the chips are down… He trusts you with his life. Just like you trust him with yours, right?"

Doyle grimaced as her words landed. All of that may have been true up until recently. But, right now, Doyle had some very serious doubts—and he suspected the feeling was mutual. He just couldn't, for the life of him, understand _why_. Wesley should've come to him for counsel once he'd found the false prophecy—he should've known, out of all people, that Doyle would protect both Angel and Connor's best interests, no questions asked. And Doyle had made himself available to Wesley, offering both friendship and counsel, waiting for the chance to debunk the prophecy and save the day as the allies they were and always had been.

Instead, all he got from Wesley was the cold shoulder. It didn't make any sense.

"It's not my life I'm worried about." Doyle finally muttered aloud.

"Wow. You're really worried about him, huh?" Cordelia noted, arching a single brow. "Listen. Whatever horrible thing you saw happen in that other future, isn't going to happen in this one. You're here this time; that changes everything."

"Not so sure 'bout that last point, darlin'." Doyle corrected, rubbing a finger along the space between his brows. "Some things seem doomed to repeat. Maybe that's my own fault, yeah? Maybe I've been keeping everyone else on a need-to-know basis for too long. I'm thinking it's time—"

His words were cut off sharply as the earth began to rumble and roll beneath them, violently shaking the bed and all the contents of the room. Doyle pulled Cordelia and Clover closer to him, shielding them both with his body as the walls and ceiling creaked and groaned around them. The quills stood at attention just beneath his skin's surface, ready to aid them should the roof over their heads give away.

The earth continued to quake for over half a minute—epic by most earthquake standards. But, thankfully, aside from a few photos falling off the walls, an upended lamp and several other objects tipping over, there didn't seem to be any major damage—not to the bedroom, at least.

"Are you okay?" He asked Cordelia, as her head lifted from the shelter of his body.

"Other than feeling like a martini? Just great." She answered with a nervous laugh, lifting Clover to her bosom, and caressing the small animal, who was even more frantic than before. "Oh, the joys of Southern California-living. How big do you think it was?" Her head popped upward as a new thought crossed her mind. "Crap! I just realized we never took out earthquake insurance on the hotel."

Doyle patted her shoulders comfortingly and then threw back the covers, jumping from the bed and navigating the displaced objects on the floor. "I'd better call—make sure it's still in one piece. Stay there, love. Aftershocks, yeah?"


	42. Sleep Tight, Part 1

**A/N - SO sorry for the slow posting the last couple of weeks. I swear, I'm not purposely trying to draw out the** **suspense, I've just been in the midst of moving, which means my life and all my possessions are basically in shambles. I'll try and do better in the coming weeks, since there aren't *that* many chapters left 'til the end. I hope you'll bear with me and read on! ;)**

* * *

 **42\. Sleep Tight, Part I**

As Doyle and Cordelia hustled through the front doors of the Hyperion, they were greeted by two sounds—music and crying. The latter of which was significantly louder. Cordelia picked up her pace, running ahead of Doyle to tend to Connor, who was fussing in his bassinet beside the front counter. Meanwhile, Doyle found himself focusing on the man who was standing over the bassinet, staring vacantly at the wailing infant within. Angel was nowhere in sight, and Doyle couldn't help but consider how easy it would have been for Wesley to lift Connor into his arms and disappear out the front door.

Too easy.

"Earth to Wes!" Cordelia snapped, jolting Wesley out of his daze. She leaned into the bassinet and hoisted Connor into her arms. "Breasts are not a requirement for picking up a crying baby."

"I'm sure the little guy would disagree on that point." Doyle cracked, shaking off his moment of paranoia and coming up behind Cordelia to briefly morph into his spikey demon face for Connor's benefit—the crying quickly subsided as one of the baby's tiny fists jutted out to grab for Doyle's facial quills. Cordelia shot a smoldering look over her shoulder causing Doyle to step back as he reverted to his human face. "Hey, I didn't mean it like _that_. They come with milk—babies like milk!"

The roll of her eyes indicated that she doubted his intended meaning. Then she returned her attention to the baby, bouncing him lightly as she headed around the reception counter and toward her desk. "Where's Angel? And what's with the singing?" She asked, referring to the other sound wafting in from the rear courtyard.

Doyle was left standing opposite Wesley, who appeared to have been shaken back to his senses, but was still acting strange, even for Wesley. The two men's eyes met only briefly, before the taller of the two turned himself away. "Um…" The Englishman scratched at his head, flustered by Cordelia's relatively simple question. "I believe that's one of Lorne's clients. I wasn't actually—"

"Awake." Cordelia offered, settling into her desk chair with the baby on her lap.

"Introduced." Wesley corrected, with a put upon expression.

"Geez, Wes. When's the last time you slept? And I'm not talking about the few times I've caught you drooling all over your books, I mean, the last time you went home and slept in an actual _bed_?" Cordelia wondered, continuing her morning barrage of rhetorical questions. "Or had a shower, for that matter? Do we need to have a talk about personal hygiene in the workplace? 'Cause I think you're dangerously close to the 'scaring-away-clients' stage."

Wesley's hand went to his cheek, tracing over the dense layer of stubble that had grown there. He looked somewhat embarrassed to find the state of his days-beyond-five-o'clock shadow.

"Doyle." Cordelia called, her eyes darting over to her boyfriend with meaning. He knew that look all too well. "You've been on the receiving end of this particular riot act enough times to know it by heart—care to give Wes a few pointers?"

Sending his own set of eye signals right back at her, Doyle replied in an even tone. "Give the guy a break, Cordy." Leaning against the far side of the counter, trying not to look like he was watching Wesley like a hawk—although, that was exactly what he was doing—Doyle pretended to check out his nail beds. If he was going to ease Wesley's hostility toward him, he had to make it clear they were still on the same side. He had to extend a very tiny olive branch of trust and hope that it was enough. "I'm sure Wes was just up all night looking for our insurance policy. Isn't that right, bud?"

Wesley's eyes darted back in Doyle's direction, looking confused more than thankful.

"We don't have insurance." Cordelia answered huffily.

"Yes… I did mention that to Angel." Wesley finally spoke again, regaining a little more of his composure even as he continued to eye Doyle warily. "He didn't seem overly concerned."

"I'm concerned alright!" Angel's energetic voice announced his presence as he suddenly appeared, striding across the lobby; he came to a pause at the far end of the reception counter. In one hand he held a mug of pig's blood and in the other he was clutching a powder blue baby blanket. " _Look_ at this."

He thrust the square of blue cotton outward, displaying the deep crimson bloodstains for all to see.

"Oh no, did he get hurt last night?" Cordelia asked worriedly, gently maneuvering the baby in her arms, so she could inspect for wounds. "Poor baby."

"It's not his blood. It's mine." Angel clarified, still gripping the blemished garment tightly in his fist. "I ruined Connor's favorite blanket!"

Cordelia sighed with relief as she held the baby close to her body, rocking him protectively. "God, Angel, you scared me—just leave it by the sink and I'll see what I can do." She said waving a dismissive hand toward the kitchen area. "If this job has taught me anything, it's how to remove demon blood from fabric."

"Can't have my son swaddled in blood stains." Angel insisted, tossing the blanket aside and taking a hearty drink from the crimson liquid in his mug.

"Yeah, I could see how the sight o' blood might disturb the little guy." Doyle said wryly, watching as Angel gluttonously chugged from the mug of pig's blood.

And he was still chugging.

Still chugging.

Doyle's eyebrows angled upward as he watched his friend polish off every last drop, punctuated by a loud slurping sound. "Good thing there's nothin' to see… Ya okay, man?"

"Ah!" The vampire smacked his lips together as if he'd just finished lapping up a tasty beverage. "I don't know what it is about fatherhood—but I could drink a horse!"

"I don't think that's a trait of fatherhood as much as vampirism." Cordelia observed, wrinkling her nose in disgust and swiveling her chair around so she could check the telephone messages with one hand, and cradle Connor with the other.

"Maybe we should talk about the fire?" Doyle suggested, nodding toward the staircase. "Sounds like it did some real damage, yeah?"

"Yup!" Angel replied in a much-too-chipper voice, as he discarded his empty mug and paced over to Cordelia to reclaim his son. "My place is unlivable."

"And having a burnt out shell of an apartment makes you giddy?" Cordelia questioned as Connor was lifted out of her arms. "Do I need to remind you about the no insurance thing?"

"Wes already did." Angel said with a disinterested shrug, as he let Connor's small fist wrap around his index finger. Father and son playfully bopped toward the weapons cabinet across the room. "It's a hotel." He remarked over his shoulder. "Connor and I can just relocate 'til we fix it. Isn't that right, little guy?"

"Can't help but notice the 'we' in that sentence." Cordelia grumbled, turning toward her computer and rapidly clacking her fingers against the keyboard. "Angel Investigations, we help the hopeless _and_ remodel bathrooms." After a moment, she reconsidered her previous gripe. "That's kinda catchy, actually."

It suddenly occurred to Doyle that, despite his unusual silence, Wesley was still present. He'd moved silently across the reception area, and was now examining both the blood stained blanket as well as Angel's empty mug beside it. Investigating. Probing. Considering.

Doyle could plainly see that Wesley's suspicions wouldn't so easily be assuaged by Doyle's words of warning.

It wasn't helping that Angel was acting peculiar this morning—unusually upbeat and energetic, which was especially odd considering he and his son had nearly died in a fiery inferno the previous night. Then there was the rather unsettling visual of Angel vigorously chugging his morning cup of blood.

Even Doyle had to admit, there was something decidedly _off_ about Angel, and he intended to find out what it was and address it accordingly. Regardless, Doyle still knew, unequivocally, that Angel would never hurt his son. But for someone who _did_ have doubts—someone like Wesley, for example—the odd behavior certainly wasn't doing him any favors.

So, what now? How could Doyle prove to Wesley that the prophecy was false? How could he stop his friend from making a catastrophic mistake? The direct approach had proved fruitless thus far. And the indirect approach—telling Angel—could have devastating repercussions for the team. Yet, this wasn't something that could be left up to chance.

It would have to be left up to Doyle. He was the only one who could stop it. And all it would take was a simple plan—a very simple plan. Doyle would personally have to be there 24/7, keeping Connor and/or Wesley in his sights at all times. Even if it meant sacrificing his nights alone with Cordelia. Even if he was the one losing sleep and growing three-day-old stubble. There was simply no other way to ensure that things would stay on track.

Connor's future depended on Doyle and he didn't intend to miss it.

* * *

" _Try to see it my way. Only time will tell if I am right or I am wrong. While you see it your way, there's a chance that we may fall apart before too long. We can work it out. We can work it oooouuuut."_

Connor giggled up at the spikey-faced demon singing one of The Beatles' classic tunes. Doyle was seated on the red sofa beside the reception area, bouncing the babe on his knee in time with the music.

"If only it were that easy, mon little Irish frere." Lorne's voice permeated the post-song silence, causing Doyle to look up. The permanently green-skinned demon had just sashayed down the main staircase, wearing one of his trademark fuchsia suits and sipping from a glass of light pink liquid. "Working it out is fine in theory, but sometimes that just ain't in the cards. There's _your_ way, there's the highway and then there's the actual way things are gonna go—"

Doyle frowned up at the psychic, simultaneously morphing back into his human visage. "It's not polite to read a fella's aura without asking, y'know."

"Sorry. How thoughtless of me." Lorne replied facetiously. "Didn't mean to pry into that giant flashing billboard you hung in the middle of the room."

Connor fussed, batting his feet and fists in Doyle's direction and letting out a series of grunts. With a heavy sigh, Doyle morphed back into the spikes, and the baby shrieked with delight once again. There wasn't a human child on earth who loved demon faces as much as little Connor.

"What about that musician friend o' yours? She get her magic cure?" Doyle inquired with only a slight edge of bitterness to his voice. Lorne's musician friend in question was his client, Kim, who'd been filling the lobby with song earlier that evening… right up until the point she'd unexpectedly turned into a demon.

Those things happened. Doyle should know.

"Now, now. I don't need to remind you how Cylenthium powder only works on humans who don't actually possess any demon DNA." Lorne answered, not without sympathy. "Nasty Wraithers—can't keep their viscous fluids to themselves… Anyway, yes, to answer your question. Kim will be fine. A month from now and she'll be singing her little heart out without so much as a drop of slime involved."

"Lucky girl." Doyle remarked. And she was at that. She got the fix-it Doyle had desperately wished for once upon a time. Yet, Doyle couldn't help but think that his demon-ness had turned into a blessing in disguise. Sure, it had been a curse to start; it had destroyed the man he was and the life he'd formerly had. But, being a demon had also brought him to Angel, …which had brought him to Cordelia. And, although there would always be that part of him that resented the contribution his father made to his life—namely those molecules from hell that flowed through Doyle's veins—he was willingly sitting in a semi-public space using his demon attributes to amuse a baby. If that didn't show how much he'd grown as a half-person, nothing would.

"Here, why don't you let me?" Lorne offered, placing his cocktail down on the front counter and lifting Connor into his own arms. "It's time mini-Angel learned there's more to music than U2, The Beatles and Barry Manilow."

"Well, o'course. There's also Frank." Doyle agreed, standing up and stretching his limbs. Now that Connor had a new demon face to occupy him, Doyle happily returned to his human form. Acceptance was one thing, but he still had his preference.

Lorne bounced Connor on his hip as he reclaimed his drink and tossed a pointed look over his shoulder. "Let's you and I go over here and leave Uncle Doyle to sit on his big, pointy fence all alone."

Doyle frowned again, pacing a few steps behind Lorne. "Alright, alright… y'can quit with the vague digs and just tell me what ya saw on that blinking billboard, yeah?" The psychic didn't answer right away, continuing to make goofy faces at the very amused baby in his arms. Doyle raised his eyes to the chandelier overhead, and let out a puff of annoyance. "Do y'know where Wesley went?"

It was the question Doyle had been pondering ever since Wesley had tasked the rest of the gang with slaying the Wraither demons and then promptly excused himself to run an "errand." If Doyle hadn't already committed to babysitting duties for the day, he'd have followed Wesley and gotten the truth for himself.

"I'm reading you _,_ not him, Irish eyes. I have no idea where Wesley is or what he's doing." Lorne reminded his demon comrade. "I do know what you _think_ he's doing. And I gotta say..." He let out a low whistle. "Wesley the betrayer? I don't see it. In all the time I've known Mr. Stiff-and-Upper, I've never caught a single whiff of disloyalty. For him to do what you're thinking…"

"I know what I saw in that other timeline." Doyle countered, but then let a trace of hopefulness slip into his voice. "But I also know not everything is doomed to repeat—if you're telling me I'm worrying over nothing… well, then _tell_ me, yeah? Before I go and do something that can't be undone."

Lorne twirled the pink liquid in his glass, entertaining both himself and the baby with the sound of clinking ice. "It's a big decision you have to make. A decision that could change Wesley's life forever; could change the entire team forever—and it all hinges on whether or not you think Wesley is the good man we've always known him to be."

"Good men can make bad decisions." Doyle pointed out; it was something he knew from experience. Something he was afraid of doing again.

"Sounds like you've already decided." Lorne replied pointedly. "All that's left is to act—and by 'act' I don't mean gluing yourself to Connor's side for the rest of your natural life, which I think we both can agree is a plan as solid as Swiss cheese."

Doyle blew out a long stream of breath. "Got me there… so, care to point me toward the breadcrumbs?"

"You don't need my advice, Hansel." Lorne observed, swigging the remainder of liquor from his glass and placing it back down on the countertop. He lifted one of Connor's stuffed animals that sat nearby, playfully offering it to the infant. "You just need to be reminded that windows of opportunity tend to close rather abruptly. We clear about that?"

"Crystal." Doyle answered with a gulp.

There was more he wanted to ask Lorne—more details he wished to discuss with the psychic, who sometimes doubled as a therapist of sorts—but the front doors flung open, interrupting their impromptu counseling session. And, Doyle supposed he'd gotten the most important piece of advice he possibly could from Lorne—his passive plan of waiting and watching wasn't going to be enough; action was required.

And time was running out.

"Nothing like a hard night's work!" Angel's declaration of victory was the first sound to emanate from the entering group. He led the pack, making a beeline past Doyle, Lorne and Connor without much in the way of acknowledgement. Kicking open the mini-fridge near the coffee machine, Angel grabbed a large bottle of blood as if it were a beer and began chugging it down with even more zest than he had that same morning.

"Ah… things went well, I take it?" Doyle wondered, turning his perplexed eyes from his vampire pal to Cordelia, Gunn and Fred who trudged over to the front counter with far less enthusiasm.

"Oh, yeah." Cordelia said with a wave of her hand, as she moved to stand beside Doyle. Her suspiciously shiny sword landed on the countertop with a clatter. "You missed quite a show."

"Must'a been a good fight, yeah?" Doyle guessed.

"Not really." Gunn clarified, letting his signature homemade axe plop down onto the cushions of the red couch as he did the same. "Angel did all the work—the rest of us got nothing _but_ a show."

Cordelia nodded, her mouth twisted with disappointment as she moved into the circumference of Doyle's arms and wrapped her arms loosely around his waist. "If I knew Angel was going full-on Terminator, I would've stayed with you on baby duty. Was there a lot of singing? And snuggling? I hate when you and Connor do adorable things without me."

He smiled down at her, planting a kiss on her grumpy head. "I promise ya, love, we kept the adorable to a bare minimum."

"Those Wraithers looked so tough, with the spines and the scales and the _things_." Fred commented, gesturing with her hands to describe the demons' anatomy that lacked proper English words. As she spoke, she collected Gunn's axe and Cordelia's sword, moving both weapons to the cabinet along with the crossbow she had looped over her shoulder. "And then they just came apart—like Velcro. Kinda wimpy as far as demons go."

Lorne had been silently wriggling Connor's stuffed animal around in front of the baby's smiling face. His demon brow wrinkled at Fred's observation. "Not any Wraithers I've ever known—they generally take _other_ things apart." He quickly shrugged off his concern. "Was their music any good?"

"Terrible." Angel grunted, slamming a second empty bottle of blood down beside the first one he'd already drained. He turned to the rest of the group, wiping a dribble of blood off his chin and then licking it from the back of his hand. "Gave me a headache."

"Guess we can safely say Brachens are non-infectious." Cordelia said teasingly, poking Doyle lightly in the chest. "No spikes for me, although I would look fabulous in them. Don't y'think?"

"Not funny." He grumbled back at her.

"Totally is." She retorted, leaning forward to kiss his now pouty lips.

Behind the counter, Angel was pawing through the small fridge, looking for another bottle of blood amongst the sea of milk bottles. "This refrigerator is too small. Everything in it belongs to Connor." He complained, pushing the multiple baby bottles aside. "It's all milk—nothing but milk!"

Finally, Angel located one last bottle of blood way in the back; he yanked it out, knocking some of the milk bottles to the floor as he did so. They rolled away as Angel slammed the door to the fridge shut and began pacing behind the reception area like a caged animal, clutching the full bottle of blood tightly in his fist.

Doyle's brows raised with concern as he watched his friend's frenzied movements. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Lorne had wisely moved himself and Connor further away from the agitated vampire, casually increasing the space between them. Fred scooted by on her way back from the weapons cabinet, tossing a concerned look in Angel's direction before hurriedly slinking down beside Gunn on the red couch.

"Ah… take it easy there, bud." Doyle instructed cautiously, his eyes landing on the two empty blood bottles Angel had left on the rear counter as well as the full one in his friend's hand. "Can't help but notice how much blood you've been drinking as of late."

"You're one to talk!" Angel snapped in reply, causing both Doyle and Cordelia to shirk back in surprised unison. "How many whiskey bottles do you have hidden back here, Doyle? Huh?!"

"Hey, that was uncalled for!" Cordelia shouted back. "Doyle's drinking problem is not something to joke about."

"He wasn't joking, love." Doyle noted grimly, and then tilted his head in his friend's direction. "No secret I've had my troubles with the bottle. But currently… it's not my problem that's cause for concern."

"I'm a vampire. Vampires drink blood. I don't have a problem!" Angel shouted angrily. He twirled around, hurling the nearly full bottle of blood in his hand at the wall. It exploded, painting the stone facade with a thick, dripping splatter of blood and showering the floor with shattered glass.

Angel stood staring at the mess he'd just made, every bit as shocked as those around him. When he spoke again, his voice was much lower and unsteady. "Maybe I do have a problem… what's wrong with me?"


	43. Sleep Tight, Part 2

**43\. Sleep Tight, Part II**

Doyle increased his stride to keep up with Angel, who was currently stomping full steam ahead toward the hoity-toity bar where Lilah Morgan's assistant had so helpfully directed them. There was a distinct sense of déjà vu—after all, it wasn't that long ago that he'd chased Cordelia down on her way to seek revenge against the unflappable Ms. Morgan. And while the bitchiest lawyer in town may have deserved everything she had coming to her, especially in light of recent information, Doyle couldn't just let Angel—in his particularly volatile and bloodthirsty state—physically harm a human being, even if that human _was_ Lilah.

Breathlessly catching up to Angel within the front vestibule of the upscale establishment, Doyle planted a hand on Angel's shoulder. "Ya wanna slow down a bit? Some of us _do_ need to breathe, yeah?"

"The quicker I break both of Lilah's arms, the quicker you can tell me about the next big bad that's on its way." Angel snapped, his hand hovering over the door handle. "That's what you want, right? That's what the Powers want?!"

"Well, ah… yeah, ya got me there. Time's definitely of the essence." Doyle allowed, nervously feeling for his cellular phone as he thought of just what and _who_ the next big bad would turn out to be. "It's the whole arm-breaking bit I was hoping to skip over."

"She fed me my own son's blood, Doyle. She wanted me to _kill_ him!" Angel growled, his knuckles going white as he squeezed his fist around the shiny brass handle of the glass door. "She's lucky I don't tear her limb from limb—damn my moral high ground."

Doyle's own knuckles were probably a matching tone, so tightly was his hand wrapped around his cell phone. He was itching to call Cordelia; make sure she understood just how deadly serious he was being when he'd instructed her not to let Connor out of her sight and hers specifically. _Dramatic much?_ Her silent retort echoed in his head, but he trusted that she wouldn't take his words lightly.

"Eye for an eye—I get it, man. But, Connor's got both eyes. He's fine. Ya gotta remember that." Doyle recapped. He wasn't appealing to Angel's better nature for Lilah's sake—he could care less about her. It was someone a little closer to home who would soon be needing Angel's benevolence and, likely, Doyle's protection. Someone who could potentially cause Connor more harm than Lilah ever had. This was just the warm-up. The primer, to ensure that if worse came to worst, Angel would still be capable of listening to reason. "Don't let these little mind-games twist your head around. You're still the good guy, yeah?"

"I just _said_ I wouldn't kill her." Angel reiterated impatiently. He had paused to hear Doyle out, but his eyes darted anxiously toward the inside of the dimly lit bar—immediately honing in on his target at the far side of the room, drinking alone at the bar.

"She failed." Doyle reminded his friend. "So will anyone else who tries to get to him—I promise ya that. But, you and me—we've got a lotta work ahead of us, man. That's kinda what I've been wanting to discuss…"

The muscle in Angel's jaw tightened and then released. "I know." He rumbled. "That's why I hate having to _repeat_ myself." With that, Angel pushed through the doors and strode across the bar with his long, black coat flowing behind him.

He sure knew how to make an entrance.

With a heavy sigh, Doyle shoved the swinging door open for a second time and entered the dimly lit bar at a much slower pace. Making his way to the back, Doyle flashed awkward smiles at the curious patrons he passed along the way, who clearly deemed him and his shabby leather jacket an eyesore. They should've seen it _before_ Cordelia had it cleaned up.

Finally, he had a clear view of Lilah smarming at Angel through the mirrored glass behind the bar. Or, from his current vantage point, smarming at herself, since Angel wasn't actually reflected in the glass. She swiveled away from the mirror, addressing Angel directly. Her mask of indifference was firmly in place, as if they were discussing a flat tire, rather than the life of Angel's son.

The woman never learned. Someday she'd toy with the wrong demon—one without a conscience—and not even Wolfram & Hart would be able to protect her. As it was, Angel had dialed his rage down from full-on-homicidal to mere death-threat level by the time Doyle got within earshot.

"You know, Lilah, there are so many things I could do to you." Angel said with just the right amount of sincerity to be truly terrifying. "With transfusions I could keep you alive indefinitely. I do have some expertise in this area… My own son. How could you?"

"It's my job." She answered unapologetically, turning back to her drink and catching Doyle's reflection in the mirror this time. "Oh, look, you brought back-up to face little ol' me… or are you here in more of a babysitting capacity, Mr. Doyle? Gotta make sure the big guy doesn't lose it and start drinking the blood of humans who _aren't_ his son. That's _your_ job, am I right?"

"I'm off-duty." Doyle snipped back at her, moving into the space behind her barstool, not daring to take the empty one at her side. The bartender came over, eyeing both Angel and Doyle questioningly.

Doyle shook his head and sighed. "As much as it physically pains me to say this… I don't think we have time for a drink."

"Whiskey, straight. Lots of it." Angel contradicted. "On her."

The bartender moved away to serve up Angel's order. Meanwhile, Lilah sat snickering, lazily stirring her own drink. "So we're done with the empty threats already? What _will_ I do with the rest of my evening?"

"You're not helping." Doyle grumbled, wishing for once Lilah could show an ounce of human decency. Even if for only a minute. Five tops. Glancing at his wristwatch, Doyle wondered if they even had that long. Once again his mind drifted to Cordelia, alone with Connor back at the hotel.

Alone was good. He hoped to the Powers that they stayed that way.

"Don't you ever get tired of the femme fatale act, Lilah?" Angel demanded, finally sliding onto the empty barstool beside her, waiting for his drink.

 _Great, now he's getting comfortable_. Doyle tried to look at the bright side—at least he wasn't causing a scene.

"Who said it's an act?" Lilah refuted. "Do you know what it took to get where I am? How many devil's bargains I had to make along the way? After a certain point, there's no going back… I'm not sad to say I passed it a long, long time ago." She lifted her glass and held it an inch from her sneering lips. "Humanity sucks."

She drank to that.

The bartender returned, placing an overflowing tumbler of whiskey in front of Angel. Lilah rolled her eyes, but then gestured for the drink to be added to her tab. Doyle could smell the potent amber liquor even from several feet away. It was the good stuff, meant to be savored, not rushed. Angel, however, downed the drink in one long gulp, slamming it back down and gesturing to the bartender for another.

Doyle opened his lips to object, but it wasn't his own voice he heard—

"You back-stabbing traitorous bitch!"

In unison, Doyle, Angel and Lilah all turned around to take in the unwelcome party-crasher who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Standing there was a demon with straggly, dark hair, terrible skin and an obvious bone to pick with Lilah.

 _Join the club, bud_ , Doyle thought to himself.

"I have a lot of work to do." The ugly demon complained. "I can't be in every space-time at once, and here I find you drinking with my sworn enemy and his timeline-ruining sidekick!"

"Sworn enemy?" Angel wondered, furrowing his brow in confusion. "Have we met?"

"Why d'ya assume I'm the sidekick?" Doyle bantered, arching a brow at the mysterious creature. "I could be the enemy, yeah?"

"The timeline thing kinda gave it away." Angel responded.

"Good point." Doyle answered, elbowing Lilah in the ribs and pointing at their demon visitor. "He seems to know ya pretty well. Care to make an introduction?"

"Angel, Doyle—meet Sahjhan." Lilah deadpanned, tossing a bored look over her shoulder at the irate demon. "They came to me."

"Oh." Sahjhan said unhappily; his unseemly face appeared to fall as he realized he'd outed himself for no reason. The familiar name wiped the grin from Doyle's lips, and caused a chill to run down his spine. This wasn't just any old demon clamoring from out of the shadows to try and destroy Angel, this one actually had a chance of succeeding, in a manner of speaking. "Well… now you know my name. You will learn nothing more."

"Other than that you're his sworn enemy, and a time-traveler—gee, wonder if you've brought any centuries-old vampire hunters with you recently?" Lilah smarmed, turning her back on the action. "They also know you came to me for help— _idiot_. No wonder your species was decimated. Darwinism at its finest."

"Hey! You think my life is easy? I'm jumping from one dimension to another." Sahjhan griped. "I don't always have sound. Sometimes it's just a visual—and even the picture isn't reliable with _that_ guy around." He said pointing an accusatory finger at Doyle. "Saw you sitting here all chummy."

"So… _why_ do you wanna kill me?" Angel wondered.

"He wouldn't tell me either." Lilah complained. "Not that I need a reason. I was just curious."

"Can ya give us a hint?" Doyle asked, working hard to keep his nerves hidden behind a mask of humor. "Ten bucks says it's a revenge-type scenario. Any takers?"

"You will pay." Sahjhan growled ominously, right before evaporating back into the thin air from whence he came.

"Huh." Angel said, turning to eye Doyle as he pointed to the empty space the demon had just occupied. "Is _that_ what you wanted to warn me about?"

"Not specifically." Doyle replied. "But, definitely part o' the problem."

The bartender came back over, placing another full tumbler of whiskey in front of Angel. The vampire left it untouched as he stood from his barstool. "We don't have time for this." He abruptly strode away, gesturing for Doyle to follow him. "I wanna hear everything, Doyle—right now."

Doyle eyed the full glass Angel left on the bar and let out a little groan. He hated seeing good whiskey go to waste, but he squelched the desire to down it himself and moved off in Angel's wake.

Lilah looked after him, her eyes narrowing with intrigue. "I'm starting to think you're more than meets the eye, Mr. Doyle."

* * *

The Hyperion lobby looked deserted. Wesley stood in the doorway, taking in all the empty space, his heart pounding in his chest with nerves. He'd spent the better part of the evening wheeling and dealing with the enemy. As much as Wesley didn't want to trust Holtz—not even a little bit—he couldn't deny the man's logic when it came to saving Connor.

And that was all Wesley wanted to do—save Connor. Save Angel from himself. Save them all from the certain doom that would follow if the prophecy came true.

Now all that was left was one day. Twenty-four hours to circumvent Doyle's apparent meddling. That would be the hardest feat to accomplish—how could Wesley hope to win a battle against an opponent who could see all the moves ahead and had planned for them for ages?

 _By being unpredictable_ , Wesley reminded himself. That was the one and only weapon in his arsenal.

As if on cue, Wesley noticed a gentle rustling in the baby seat perched on the front counter, revealing that the lobby wasn't nearly as empty as it had readily appeared. Somewhere close by must be an adult member of the team, minding the napping infant.

If it was Doyle, no amount of unpredictability would work. But if it was anyone else…

Wesley saw one of Connor's diaper bags nearby, already half-packed. He immediately shot into action, rushing to the fridge and collecting the ready-made bottles stored there. He stuffed them into the pre-packed bag along with a few extra pampers and one of Connor's favorite stuffed toys—a monster, of course. And he did it all while holding his breath. When he turned around to grab an extra pacifier, he came face to face with—

"Cordelia!"

"Shhhh, Wes." She reprimanded him, holding her index finger perpendicular across her lips. "You wake a sleeping baby and you'll feel double the wrath—his _and_ mine."

"Sorry." He replied, lowering his voice to the same loud-whisper she was using; his eyes searched the room once again, looking for her other half. "Um… where is everyone else? Angel? _Doyle_ …?"

"I'm pretty sure the two musketeers are at a bar—hard to tell, since there wasn't any hooting and hollering in the background. Is it possible they _didn't_ go to a sports bar?" She answered, moving past Wesley to make sure Connor was tucked snuggly into his car seat. "And in a move that surprised absolutely no one, Fred and Gunn went to get food."

"Are you—um, taking him somewhere?" Wesley inquired, lifting the now fully packed baby bag and indicating the travel seat Connor was strapped into.

Cordelia nodded, taking the bag from Wesley's hand and poking around at the extra items he'd added. "With everything that's happened, Doyle thought it might be good for Connor to spend a night away from the hotel. Obviously, Angel didn't disagree under the circumstances." She explained as she zipped up the bag with a flourish, satisfied with the contents. "It'll be good practice for us. In case we ever decide to have little quarter-demons of our own—and if you tell Doyle I said that, you are deader than dead, capisce?"

"The circumstances?" Wesley asked curiously, having not the slightest clue what she was referring to.

"Oh, right. I forgot you weren't here for Angel's bloody binge-drinking freak out." She said dismissively. "Just Wolfram & Hart taking evil to all new and gross levels—they spiked Angel's blood supply with Connor's blood. Their nefarious attempt at getting Angel to feed off his own son… as if _that_ would ever happen."

"O-of course not." Wesley responded in a choked voice.

"Angel totally lost it—I mean, who can blame him, right? Targeting Connor is just unforgivable." Cordelia noted, tracing a finger along the edge of Connor's baby seat. "Angel loves his son more than anything."

Cordelia looked a little wistful as she proclaimed Angel's love for his child. If only she knew how prescient her argument was in that moment. It was as if she'd looked into Wesley's conscience and put words to his dilemma.

Angel did love his son, Wesley didn't doubt that for a second. But there was love and then there was fate.

Destiny.

Apocalypse.

It was that love—a father's love—that was powerful enough to end all things. Because if Angel did kill his son, the way the prophecy said he would—the way the Loa confirmed he would—then he would be destroyed… and it wasn't out of the question, that he'd take the rest of the world down with him.

And it stood to reason that Doyle would be by his side, guiding his every move.

Just as he was at this very moment…

The proverbial light bulb went off over Wesley's head as his one and only opportunity presented itself on a shining, silver platter. "You know, it just so happens, I was planning to ask Angel if I could take Connor to my place for a night—there's this charming little park just across the street. Always full of children… I thought it might be nice. For both of us."

Cordelia's movements slowed and she looked like she was silently mulling something over. "And here I thought you were planning on running away with him."

"I-I—what?" Wesley sputtered, his face rapidly draining of color.

She spun around to face him with a deadly serious expression that rapidly broke into a smirk. "Kidding. Geez, Wes, lighten up. They say babies can smell fear, y'know." Turning away from Connor, she moved to her desk and procured a tiny, folded blue blanket, running a palm over the soft, unblemished fabric. She extended the fuzzy bundle toward Wesley, nodding toward Connor and the bag. "Here—take this, too. It's his favorite. And thanks to Auntie Cordelia's magical laundering ways, it's completely bloodstain-free."

"So… you don't mind?" Wesley asked, somewhat surprised that it'd been that easy to wrestle the baby from Cordelia's rather overprotective bosom.

"Well, I _do_ mind… but, we all love Connor; we should all get a chance to spend time with him." She said matter-of-factly. "Plus, I think Doyle wanted to talk to me about something important tonight. So, it's better for Connor to spend the night with someone who can give him undivided attention. But, I've got dibs on tomorrow, okay? No baby-hogging."

"Of course." Wesley agreed, swallowing thickly and then quickly taking the blanket she offered. He then moved toward the diaper bag, slinging it over his shoulder. Finally, he lifted Connor's car seat off the countertop with the baby still sleeping soundly within. He threw an anxious smile in Cordelia's direction as she gave a little wave. He then scurried toward the front door as quickly as his legs would carry him without making it appear like he was running.

"Oh, Wesley—one more thing!" Cordelia called, halting him in his tracks just inches from the front door. He held his breath tightly as he slowly turned back in her direction. She had plucked a small square of paper from her desk and rushed around the counter to catch up with Wesley. "I almost forgot." She said, waving the yellow post-it note in the air. "Angel wants you to look up some demon guy, um… Sean-John?"

"Sahjhan." Wesley croaked.

"Yeah, that's it. You've heard of him?" Cordelia wondered, folding the post-it and sticking it into Wesley's shirt pocket, since he had no available hands. "Inter-dimensional creepoid with really bad skin. Thinks Angel's his mortal enemy… or maybe it's Doyle who's the enemy? I dunno, but I guess we can add him to the ever-growing list of demons who wanna kill us, huh?"

"Yes. It would seem." Wesley agreed, trying his best to sound nonchalant. "I-I have some books at my place—I'll get right on it."

"Well, don't work _too_ hard." She responded, flashing a smile down at the sleeping bundle in the car seat. "See you boys tomorrow!"

Wesley nodded in agreement and then propelled himself out the front door, and straight into a man entering from the other side. His breath caught in his throat as he half-expected to find Doyle standing in his way, impeding the final leg of his getaway.

The man wasn't Doyle. It wasn't Angel or Gunn or Lorne either, but he did have a vaguely familiar look about him.

"Excuse me." The man said, stepping back to allow Wesley passage. Despite his shaggy brown hair and beard, he was well-dressed, wearing a three piece grey suit topped off by a fedora. His shoes were well-shined, and there was flash of gold on his cuffs. He didn't look like a client—more like a gangster from an old movie. The man smiled, nodding downward. "Cute baby you got there."

"Oh, um… thanks." Wesley scuttled by, a little more hesitantly than before. "Are you looking for Angel Investigations?"

"Sorta." The guy answered sticking his hands in his pockets and cocking his head toward the front door. "My old buddy, Doyle, asked me to meet him here. He around?"

"No, no. I'm afraid not." Wesley replied cautiously, adjusting the strap of the heavy diaper bag on his shoulder without jostling Connor around too much. "Perhaps, you should come back later."

"Guess so." The man agreed. He turned away from the front door, accompanying Wesley the rest of the way across the courtyard, pausing at the front gate to pull a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. "You have yourself a good night now."

Wesley offered the stranger a hurried farewell nod and then checked both ways for traffic before rushing where his car was parked across the street. He threw Connor's bag and blanket into the passenger seat and then crawled into the back to securely fasten the car seat. As he slammed both car doors and raced around the car to the driver's side, he took a final look around to see if Doyle's "buddy" had lingered or moved on.

Seeing no sign of the shady-looking character, Wesley hopped into his car, shut the door and pulled away, driving himself to safety along with the sleeping child he could see in his rearview mirror.

They'd leave all this chaos and death behind. Make a whole new life for themselves.

This is what saving the world felt like. It wasn't at all how Wesley had pictured it.

Sneaking off into the night.

Breaking all ties.

Never to be seen or heard from again.


	44. Sleep Tight, Part 3

**44\. Sleep Tight, Part III**

Angel's convertible came to a stop behind an old beater that looked empty. The street around them was mostly dark, but somewhere, in one of the nearby vehicles Holtz was waiting to exact his ultimate plan of revenge on Angel.

"Ya sure you checked everywhere?" Doyle asked Gunn who was on the other end of the phone, searching for the missing member of the Angel Investigations team—so far, there was nothing to find. Nothing at all. "Well, keep looking, yeah?" He urged, right before clicking the disconnect button, pocketing the device and turning to the vampire in the driver's seat. "No sign o' Wes."

"Maybe that's for the best right now." Angel grunted in reply, never taking his eyes off the dark downtown street around them.

Doyle let out a small sigh of regret, although he couldn't necessarily disagree with the sentiment. He hadn't wanted things to go down like this. He'd had another plan, a better plan. But he'd run out of time and here they were, executing a much hastier plan that certainly had its flaws.

Wesley's disappearance being a major one.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Angel demanded, gesturing to the seemingly empty street in front of them. "I don't see anything."

"This is the place a'right." Doyle answered with absolute dread. He may not have been certain about everything he'd seen in that long–ago vision of the future, but the game-changer that would happen in this place was a certitude. "This is where it all went wrong in that other timeline, man." He explained, swallowing the lump in his throat that came with the memories that had been passed to him by the other Cordelia—she'd never actually seen this place, but her feelings about it left an indelible imprint. "Everything that came after was pretty much a mess of epic proportions."

"Then I guess we'd better get out of the car." Angel suggested, his jaw clenched tightly.

Doyle held out a hand, catching Angel's arm before he could get out of the vehicle. "Just promise me ya won't go and do anything crazy, like say, get yourself sucked into a portal to Quor'toth. Last thing I needa do is to screw up this timeline even worse than the other, yeah?"

Angel didn't promise anything, but his gloomy look said enough. He was seething underneath the surface. He wanted to rip apart every man, woman and demon who had a role to play in this moment, even if it meant diving headlong into a hell dimension to do it. He wanted to make sure nothing like this would ever happen again; not now, not ever. And Doyle couldn't blame him—mostly, because he felt the exact same way.

The two men jumped out of the car and rushed forward as a cacophony of squealing tires exploded from the silence. Numerous Humvees pulled up, with heavily armed, black-clad figures behind the wheels. The air around them filled with the sound of a chopper, and the formerly dark underpass lit up with dancing spotlights.

It was instant chaos.

And there, in the middle of it all, was Holtz… holding a crying baby, wrapped in his favorite blue blanket. "Come any closer and I'll snap his neck!"

Both Angel and Doyle came to a dead stop just a few feet from the vengeful vampire hunter and his prize. His lackey, Justine, stood a few feet away brandishing a bloody knife, her eyes roaming wildly over the armed men who had rapidly surrounded them. The sea of dark figures parted, revealing the ringleader—Lilah Morgan. "You're going to give us the child, Captain Holtz."

The usual suspects were all there. All except one.

"Don't!" Angel shouted over all the noise.

Doyle's head swirled with the helicopter strobe lights around him. He heard Lilah's continued demands for the baby—Wolfram & Hart wanted him alive. For the time being, at least. Holtz, too, seemed pretty adamant about keeping the baby alive; in a twisted way, his motives were almost pure. Yes, he wanted revenge, but he also wanted a replacement for the family he'd lost long ago. Justine, she wanted that family as well, and dying for it wasn't out of the question.

No one present was a direct threat to Connor's life. Not until the air began to shimmer.

"The child needs to die!" Sahjhan declared, materializing right on cue, in the center of the chaos. "And I know everyone here wants to go on deliberating for a while, but I'll make it real simple…" The demon raised his arms and shouted into the open air. "Lekko najine forkahdio!"

An explosion of sparks burst from the air above as the very fabric of the earthly dimension appeared to tear open. Beyond the torn edges, Doyle could see a swirling, blood-red sky and knew for certain he was looking upon the worst of all the possible hell dimensions. A place no soul should have to go.

"What you are looking into is the Quor'toth, the darkest of the dark worlds. So, I can widen the portal and you can all be swallowed up by a world you can not begin to imagine—or you can keep your word and kill that child." Sahjhan announced to the group, he raised his arms and the hole grew a little wider, much to the terror of all who were present. The demon pointed a gnarled demon finger in Doyle's direction, laughing maniacally. "Ha! You thought you could stop this, but you were wrong! Some things are meant to be!"

"I get that now." Doyle answered in a strangled voice, taking a step back from the hole, which was continuing to expand. And he did get it—some things couldn't be stopped. Some things couldn't be changed. This moment had to happen exactly the way it had happened before. Exactly as it was happening now. It _was_ inevitable.

"Kill it!" Lilah declared, waving her hand at the commandos, who all cocked their machine guns in unison, preparing to shower the air with bullets.

"No!" Angel shouted back, moving closer to the intended target. Playing the role he was always meant to play.

Everything went into slow motion as Holtz made his decision. He began to move toward the swirling hole of horror. He could still get what he wanted, he could still separate Angel from his son and keep that son for himself. Something he accomplished by taking a flying leap into Quor'toth, with the baby still held tightly in his arms.

"Daniel! Daniel!" Justine screamed after him, looking as if she was tempted to follow.

"No! NO!" Angel continued to yell. The grieving father. The ruined man.

"Hmm, not how I saw this going. I was just aiming for dead—this works better." Sahjhan remarked, staring into the swirling pit of despair. "Ah, who am I kidding?! Of course, I saw it going like this!" He waved his hand once again. "Forkahdio najine lekko!" The words caused the hole to decrease, shriveling quickly until it was nothing more than a pinpoint. And then it was gone completely. The hole. Holtz. Connor's favorite blue blanket.

Gone, gone and gone.

Doyle stood frozen in place, watching as it all ended. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

"Well, I guess we're done here. Please give my regards to the British fellow—I couldn't have done this without his extreme gullibility. Have a nice summer!" Sahjhan beamed, shimmering away into nothingness, just as the hole to Quor'toth had done only seconds earlier.

There was a dull thud as Justine let herself drop to the ground, landing on all fours. The devastation poured from her and into the now-empty air around them. Angel stood still—frozen in an apparent state of shock. So too, Doyle stood beside his friend, his breath caught in his lungs as he let himself digest what had just happened. The gravity of what had transpired.

What all this would mean for the future…

* * *

 **A/N - I hope you didn't just smash your computer or tablet into bits, because it's kind of essential that you keep reading no matter how much you hate me right now. Trust me, you don't want to stop here** **.**


	45. Forgiving, Part 1

**A/N - *phew* I can't tell you how relieved I am that you came back to read more after that last chapter...**

* * *

 **45\. Forgiving, Part I**

Cordelia sat on the circular sofa in the center of the Hyperion lobby, sipping from a mug of hot tea. She looked up as the front doors opened and the love of her life appeared. He looked tired, beaten down by the events of the evening and the heavy responsibility of his job in general. She stood up to greet him, placing her tea aside and flashing him a hopeful smile.

"How'd it go?" She wondered, clasping her hands together in front of her as he shuffled across the lobby in her direction. Her eyes darted to the closed doors behind him, wondering when the rest of their party would appear. Silently praying they were all intact.

Doyle sighed, shrugging out of his leather jacket and tossing it onto the couch as he came up beside her. "Holtz did what he was supposed to do." He answered, raising his pale green eyes to meet her dark ones. They shimmered with conflict—relief and sadness mixed in pool of exhaustion. "Leapt himself right into Quor'toth—Sahjhan, Lilah and her assault team saw the whole thing go down."

"So, that's it." Cordelia breathed, slightly in awe that they were truly at the end of this fight. "As far as they're concerned, Connor's gone forever."

"There's no coming back from that place, love." Doyle agreed, plopping down onto the sofa beside his discarded jacket. "It's over."

Cordelia took one more look over her shoulder toward the front doors. "Where's Angel?" She wondered, as she crossed toward the front counter. Once there, she leaned down into the bassinet and lifted Connor into her arms, placing a soft kiss on the side of his chunky baby cheek.

Only then did the front door open—or, rather, it was kicked in by Angel who stumbled through it with a fedora in one hand and a well-dressed man slung over his shoulder, fireman style. "Uh, Doyle... I think you forgot something?"

Doyle gestured lazily toward the red couch beside the front counter. "Just dump him over there. He'll likely be out for a while."

"What happened to him?" Cordelia wondered, wrinkling her nose at the sight of Doyle's demon associate being dropped unceremoniously onto one of their couches like a finely-dressed sack of potatoes. A loud snore emanated from the man called Penny, but otherwise, he didn't stir as he landed on the couch cushions with a thump.

Angel shook his head as he dropped the fedora over the guy's face. "We found him like this."

"Sleeping on the job. Not very professional." Cordelia criticized.

"Hey, give the guy a break." Doyle called, leaning back against the sofa cushions and crossing his legs at the ankles. "It took a lot of energy for him to hold that illusion for as long as he did."

Angel swiftly moved toward Cordelia, scooping Connor out of her arms and holding the baby close to his chest. "Daddy's gotcha—yes, he does." He cooed, bouncing the child and moving toward the kitchen area to prepare a warm bottle.

Cordelia smiled at the sight of father and son being happily reunited after such a tumultuous evening. She took a deep breath and sauntered back across the lobby to sidle down beside her boyfriend. "So… explain to me again exactly what that Penny-guy did to Connor's Teddy Bear."

Settling an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer, Doyle expanded on what he'd only briefly and hurriedly explained earlier that evening. "Penny's a Hypnos Demon—specializes in illusions. Usually minor stuff, card tricks and such. In this case, he focused all his illusory powers on the stuffed bear so that anyone who encountered it would think it was Connor, as ya saw for yourself. Pretty lifelike, yeah?"

"Um, yeah. Totally. There was crying and wiggling and everything." Cordelia commented, thinking back to the moment the illusion had first taken place. She knew Connor was safely tucked away upstairs, with Lorne looking after him, but her eyes and ears, even her nose, told her otherwise. As did Wesley's when he showed up to take the baby away. And everyone else's thereafter. "Wait—you play cards with that guy? No wonder you never win."

"I'm gonna owe him big time for this." Doyle said with a light chuckle. "Can't say it wasn't worth it—the whole epic standoff thing, watching Holtz jump himself into a hell dimension—all over a toy bear. Ya don't see that everyday, even in this line o' work."

Cordelia nodded in agreement, laughing at the visual Doyle provided. The smile soon faded, as she remembered the one downside to tonight's victory. "What about Wesley? Do you know where he is?"

"I don't care about Wesley." Angel's voice cut back into the conversation as he crossed from the reception area toward the main staircase, holding both Connor and his bottle. "If he knows what's good for him, he'll stay away."

The vampire stomped up the staircase with his pride and joy in tow, leaving Cordelia and Doyle alone once again, nestled together on the circular sofa.

"Doyle." Cordelia prompted in a slightly softer voice, even though Angel was already gone. "Is Wesley… is he _okay_?"

"I really don't know, darlin'." Doyle replied regretfully, his mouth pulling downward into a frown. "Fred and Gunn have been searching all night—it's looking like he left town."

"That doesn't make any sense." Cordelia argued, sitting up and twisting herself so she could look Doyle straight in the eye. Her hand rested on his knee as she spoke in an urgent tone. "If Wesley took Connor in order to protect him then he wouldn't have just handed him over to the enemy and left town!"

"I doubt it went down just like that." Doyle supposed. "I'm guessing he cut some kinda deal with Holtz and it went south. He got duped."

"By us." Cordelia said remorsefully. "Wasn't this like… entrapment or something? Why couldn't we have just—?"

"Told him not to do it?" Doyle finished her sentence with a pointed look. "I did that, yeah? Turns out the demon, Sahjhan, got to him, too, and Wes thought _that guy_ was the more trustworthy source."

"Actually, I was going to ask why we couldn't have hit him over the head and tied him up?" She corrected. "That's what you do for family."

"Listen, Princess… I didn't wanna turn Wes into the bad guy." Doyle defended his choices. "The whole bait and switch thing was a contingency plan, not a set up. A big part o' me was hoping it'd end with us all having a good laugh in the morning—I mean, Wes babysitting a Teddy Bear all night. That woulda been a good one."

"But then there was the part of you that wanted things to happen exactly this way. And the part of me that went along with it." Cordelia pointed out. "Because we both wanted Connor to be safe once and for all."

"Yeah." Doyle answered in a low voice, dropping his eyes to the floor. "Making the best of a bad situation, I suppose."

"What if Wesley got hurt?" She asked in a small voice, her hand squeezing against Doyle's knee. "Or worse?"

"Then I'll feel worse than I do already." Doyle assured her, letting her see the sincerity and conviction that lived within his green orbs. "But not as bad as I woulda felt if that baby ended up in a hell dimension. Even Wes would agree on that point." Leaning forward, he slid his hand into place over hers. "If it makes ya feel better, I'm pretty sure he's alive… wherever he is."

Cordelia let out a small sigh of relief, one she hadn't even known she was holding. The tension drained from her shoulders as Doyle reached out and pulled her into his arms. She let her head rest against his shoulder as he soothingly rubbed her back and she closed her eyes, letting the sound of his steady heartbeat lull her into a calmer place.

"Do you think Angel will ever forgive him?" She mumbled into the folds of Doyle's shirt.

She continued to take comfort in the rhythmic thumping before he finally answered. "Eventually." His voice rumbled in his chest. "Maybe."

"Good." Cordelia answered. "'Cause I'm not sure I can."

* * *

Doyle was double-fisted. Two mugs of coffee, one of which he took a sip from, the other he placed down on the small table beside the buzzsaw sleeping on the red lobby sofa.

Sun was now streaming through the glass windows that led to the rear courtyard—it wasn't early morning, but late morning. And Penny had slept soundly through the night. He still appeared to be dead to the world, despite the hustle and bustle from the Angel Investigations team around him.

Not that there was much in the way of hustling or bustling. Not this morning.

Shrugging to himself, Doyle turned away from the slumbering demon and moved to lean his elbows against the front counter, taking in the tableau behind it. Cordelia was at her desk, her head drooped low over a mound of paperwork. Doyle could tell she wasn't really working. More likely, she was thinking about Wesley. Doyle knew this was true, because he too, was thinking of their missing boss.

And the thoughts of Wesley didn't end there.

Clang! Clunk! Crash!

Maybe there _was_ some hustle and some bustle, after all… and some clanging and clunking and crashing. All of the commotion came from inside Wesley's former office, where Angel was "cleaning up," which translated into everything belonging to the man who'd almost gotten his son killed being tossed into the small office trash bin.

In the doorway, watching him anxiously, stood Fred. She was wringing her hands, biting her lip and tossing furtive glances at her boyfriend, who stood beside her, supportively squeezing her slender shoulder. Gunn, too, appeared rather uncomfortable as he watched the proceedings, but he wasn't the type to physically display any emotion that wasn't anger.

"What are we supposed to do? Just go on like nothing ever happened?" Gunn asked, as Angel swept an entire stack of papers off the desk and onto the floor with a definitive _thud_. "Like he was never here?"

"Works for me!" Angel replied curtly.

"B-but… Connor's okay!" Fred squeaked, her brown eyes open wide, full of dismay. "And Wesley thought he was protecting him. He didn't mean for… you know."

"And that's why I won't kill him for what he did." Angel responded offhandedly. "But he's not welcome here—not in my home, not in my business, not anywhere near my family." He placed his hands on his hips and looked around the office, admiring his handiwork. Apparently satisfied by the purge, he circled around the desk and planted himself into the chair. Finally, he looked back up at the two troubled individuals darkening his doorway. "Wherever Wesley is now, it's where he chose to be—we have other work to do; we can't waste our resources on him."

There was a slight upward quirk of Cordelia's eyebrow. She was listening; conflicted about what she was hearing. Doyle knew the feeling—he, too, wasn't ready to move on quite as quickly as Angel apparently was. Wesley might be gone, but he couldn't be so easily forgotten.

Pushing himself away from the counter, Doyle sauntered around the bend, joining the others. "Don't ya think that's a little cold, man?" He inquired, hanging a few feet away from the doorway. Fred turned to him immediately, her face lighting up with hope.

Hope, which quickly faded at Angel's brusque reply. "No—what's cold is someone I trusted going behind my back, working with the enemy and almost getting Connor sent to a hell dimension in the process!" Angel dug his index finger onto the empty desk in front of him as he spoke. "Now, you can all continue to stand around feeling bad for the guy who betrayed us, or you can help me clean up the mess he left behind!"

"Think you just did all the cleaning." Gunn muttered, eying the piles of Wesley's trashed belongings littering the floor.

"I'm talking about a demon named Sahjhan, capable of ripping open the fabric of space and time." Angel retorted, abruptly standing up from the desk chair, pacing to the bookshelf and yanking out a thick ancient tome. He whirled around, moving through the pile of trash in his newly reclaimed office. "Then there's the army of vampire-hating fanatics—I'm guessing they're probably not too happy that daddy-Holtz got sucked into hell. That tends to weigh on people. Makes them a bit grumpy." He shoved _Phisto's Dictionary Of Demons and Dimensional Spirits_ into Fred's hands and then turned to Gunn, pointing him toward the front doors. "Fred's on research, you're on recon." He strode through the gap between them and straight through the reception area, throwing a final order over his shoulder. "And Doyle, it's time you wake up your friend—ask him if he knows anything. I'm gonna go give Connor his bath."

And then Angel disappeared, leaving four bewildered colleagues in his wake.

"Guess he's back in charge." Gunn said grumpily, folding his arms over his chest and pacing a few steps out of the office doorway. Fred remained behind him, clutching the heavy demon index Angel had hoisted upon her. Gunn's gaze went from Doyle's resigned expression to Cordelia, who continued to bury her head in paperwork. "Ya'll don't have any objections? Really?"

"Ya saying you want the job?" Doyle wondered, setting aside his lukewarm mug of coffee.

"That's not what I meant." Gunn clarified. "Leaving Wes high and dry like this—it don't feel right."

Cordelia's head popped up rather abruptly. "You know what doesn't feel right?" She wheeled her chair back from her desk and stood up. "That mess all over the floor. I think there are some empty boxes in the janitor's closet." She turned on her heel and briskly walked away without another word.

Doyle tipped his head in the direction she'd gone. "You're not the only one who feels it, bud. We all lost a friend."

"It would just be better if we knew he was okay." Fred added, leaning her head against the doorframe of the inner office.

Nodding his head in understanding, Doyle looked them each in the eye and then subtly directed them to the front door. "If I were a betting man, and we all know I am… I'd say Holtz's people were the last ones to see Wes. Maybe you should both take recon—Cordy and I can handle the research."

That seemed to satisfy Gunn, who immediately moved to grab some weapons—just in case recon became something more. Fred hung back, shuffling toward Doyle and then frowning at the book she still hugged to her chest.

"Don't think you'll be needing that out in the field, love." Doyle said, removing the odd-looking book from her clutches and inspecting the weather-beaten cover.

"It's in Ga-Shundi." Fred pointed out, her lips trembling slightly.

"Ya don't say." Doyle answered, his brow furrowing as he began flipping through the pages of demonic gibberish. "Well, ah… can ya point me toward the S's 'fore ya go?"

"I don't read Ga-Shundi." She said dejectedly.

"Then I guess we better find someone who does." Doyle suggested.

A sad sort of smile graced Fred's lips for a moment and then she walked away, leaving Doyle to stare at the book of demons that could only be read by the man who was no longer there to read it.

Doyle waited as Fred and Gunn collected their weapons and headed out the front door, then he tossed the useless book onto the front counter and went in search of his girlfriend who hadn't yet returned from her journey to the janitor's closet. One shoulder-to-cry-on or punching-bag coming right up.

And right now, Doyle wasn't sure which role he wanted to play more.


	46. Forgiving, Part 2

**46\. Forgiving, Part II**

"Oh, now, here's something interesting…" Cordelia declared, moving her face closer to the curious book in front of her. She was perched on the edge of her desk, while Doyle was sprawled on the floor at her feet. He lifted his head mechanically and she held up the page of interest so he could see for himself. "Invisible ink?" She wondered, displaying the numerous pages of emptiness.

Doyle blinked several times, wondering if he was more tired than he'd originally thought. Then his neurons slowly caught up with the unusual visual. "Probably locked by a spell." He mumbled unhappily, rubbing at the furrowed patch of skin between his brows. "Put it with the others." He gestured to the ever-growing pile of books that featured unreadable demonic languages and archaic symbols.

"Bet you're wishing you'd taken the time to brush up on your dead-and-invisible languages." She sassed him, shutting the book and tossing it on top of the useless pile by his feet. "Coffee?"

Without waiting for an answer, she popped off the desktop and flounced away toward the coffee machine.

"Yeah, doll. A cuppa Joe would be swell."

The answer hadn't come from Doyle. It had come from the vertically challenged mobster wannabe who'd, up until seconds earlier, been snoring away on their lobby sofa.

"Finally." Cordelia muttered, wrinkling her nose at Penny who was now standing upright, stretching his undoubtedly stiff limbs. "Feeling all bright and shiny now that it's neither bright nor shiny?"

"Hey, man." Doyle greeted his friend, shutting the book he'd been skimming through and placing it aside so he could stand up as well. "Welcome back to the land o' the living."

"Was I out long?" Penny wondered, frowning down at the layers of wrinkles embedded in his formerly pristine suit.

"Only if you consider missing an entire day long." Cordelia replied over her shoulder, as she continued to make the coffee. "Some folks don't—vampire-types mostly."

"Wouldn't be the first time." Penny replied, with a sheepish grin. "I take it everything worked out last night—the kid's okay?"

"Connor's fine, thanks to you." Doyle assured the other man. He stepped over the various piles of books and moved to the counter, placing his forearms on the flat surface. "Although, we needa dispose of a vengeful time-shifting demon, or I can't guarantee he'll stay that way."

"Sahjhan, right?" Penny said with a nod. Noticing his reflection in the glass window that looked into the rear office, he began smoothing down his ruffled hair around his modest pair of horns. "That guy's a piece of work."

"Y'know him?" Doyle asked with surprise. Behind him, Cordelia closed the lid of the coffee maker, hit the start button, and turned around to join Doyle at the front counter.

"Know _of_ him." Penny clarified, licking the tips of his fingers and using them to remove a cowlick from the side of his head. "Used to be a big deal back in the day, when he was corporeal. Nowadays he's just a nag. Likes to eavesdrop, spread gossip, plant false prophecies, that sorta thing. Get yourselves a Rasikhian Urn and he'll be outta your hair in no time." He turned away from his reflection and gave Cordelia a wink. "Makes a nice piece for the mantle, too."

"Uh… thanks for the tip." Cordelia replied, giving him the side-eye.

"Anything for a beautiful woman." Penny said with a grin. "Seriously—you don't think I'd have done all this just for Doyle's ugly mug, do you? I'm really looking forward to cashing in on the rest of our deal."

Cordelia gave the demon a fake smile, and then arched a warning brow in Doyle's direction, noting that her boyfriend looked vaguely amused by his associate's unabashed flirting. "What exactly did you promise this guy, Doyle?"

The smile never left Doyle's lips, even has he aimed for a slightly more contrite expression. "Ah… well, y'see, Princess. Penny here's sorta on the market..."

"The _market_?" Cordelia asked through a frozen smile. "I hope you mean the black market. Like, the one that sells demon parts."

Lifting his fedora off the couch cushion, Penny gave it a little twirl before plopping it over his set of horns. "I'm looking for a lady friend." The demon clarified. "Doyle said you have a gift for the matchmaking. So, I was hoping for an introduction and a good word. Nothing salacious—I assure you, I'm as gentlemanly a demon as ever there was."

"Wait, let me get this straight. You risked life and limb…" Cordelia narrowed her eyes at the odd, little man. "…for a set up?"

"I was thinking one o' those new-agey girls from your old yoga class." Doyle recommended with a shrug. "They're an open minded lot—well-toned, too."

Cordelia nodded as she tried to imagine which of her yoga class acquaintances Doyle could possibly think were _that_ open-minded. "How many demon parts are under that suit anyway?"

"If I didn't think Doyle would object, I'd happily show you." Penny flirted, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Holding up his hands in a cease and desist gesture, Doyle began moving around the counter to corral Penny toward the front doors. "Alright, bud. Think it's 'bout time for you to be going, yeah?"

"See—this one, so old-fashioned." Penny wisecracked as Doyle jokingly pushed him toward the door. "Did I mention I'm partial to red-heads?"

Cordelia was laughing as her half-demon boyfriend continued to shepherd their new ally toward the exit. Just then the phone began to ring and she lifted the receiver. "Angel Investigations. We help the—Fred? What is it?"

Her breath caught in her chest as she listened to the frantic voice on the other side of the phone.

"It's Wesley..."

* * *

A multitude of tubes vined around the lump in the bed, connecting heavily bandaged flesh to dripping sacks of IV fluids and chirping monitors. The heavy "hospital smell" that hung in the air was impossible to ignore, as was the constant beeping and whirring of the machines.

"He looks bad." Cordelia observed, her arms folded protectively over her body as she eyed the unconscious man in the bed who was taking shallow, shuttering breaths. "Life-or-death bad."

She and Doyle were standing several feet away from the open door leading into Wesley's hospital room, which allowed them a clear visual of their former boss. It wasn't a particularly attractive picture; the patient was in bad shape. It didn't take a medical degree to see that.

Doyle didn't reply to Cordelia's astute commentary. His throat felt thick, as if it was trying to inhibit speech… or, better yet, allow him to empathize with the man who'd recently had his throat slit open.

"Trachea's all messed up. Can't talk or nothing—lost a lotta blood, too." Gunn explained, as he clutched Fred's hand tightly in his own. The two of them had been waiting outside Wesley's hospital room for the rest of the gang to arrive. And they had seemed rather relieved when the gang actually _did_ arrive—most of it anyway.

"He gonna make it?" Doyle asked gruffly, finally finding his voice.

"Of course, he'll make it." Cordelia huffed in reply, although underneath her bravado was a slight warble of doubt, which became far less subtle as she turned to meet Fred's eyes. " _Right_?"

"They think so, but he's not completely out of the woods, yet." Fred replied, trying to sound more reassuring than she probably felt. "You should go in—I'm sure seeing you guys will help."

"Dunno 'bout that." Doyle muttered, earning curious glances from both Fred and Gunn. He didn't feel the anger that Angel was feeling. Nor the hurt and disappointment that Cordelia felt. Nor even the slight hopefulness that the other two felt. Maybe Doyle would get to one of those places eventually, but he wasn't there yet.

No—seeing Wesley in this pitiful state, practically on death's door—all Doyle could feel was _remorse_.

He had been in a position to change things, not just for Connor and Angel, but for Wesley, too. And, by all means, Doyle had _wanted_ to change things. For nearly three years, he had fought by Wesley's side and considered him a friend, despite any misgivings he had about Wesley's actions in some alternate timeline. Doyle had long since put himself in the other man's shoes and he _understood_ why Wesley made the choices he did the first time around.

What if the prophecy was real? What if the only way to save Angel was to betray him? Maybe—just maybe—Doyle would have done the same.

Maybe, but probably not.

Doyle was not Wesley, and Wesley was not Doyle.

Even so, Doyle was sure this time could be different. Because he was there to _tell_ Wesley it was different. He had given Wesley his word, as a friend, that the prophecy was false. That should have been enough.

Why wasn't it enough?

"I-I thought…" Fred said quietly, realizing that the joyful reunion was anything but joyful. "Didn't you want us to find him?"

Doyle's jaw clenched, and he turned his back on the tortured image of Wesley in his hospital bed. "I did… And there he is, yeah?" He felt Cordelia's hand on his shoulder, massaging lightly and offering silent support. She understood the hurt Doyle was feeling; she felt it too, albeit in an entirely different way. "I need some air," he grunted, shuffling off down the hallway.

Cordelia stood and watched sorrowfully as Doyle retreated. As usual, he was beating himself up for things he couldn't control. Feeling responsible for other people's actions, simply because he had some foresight. But, Doyle wasn't responsible. He'd done what he had to do, which was protect Connor at all costs.

It was just unfortunate the cost was Wesley…

She swallowed her own regret for the part she'd played. It was only a fraction of what Doyle felt, she was sure of that. And as that regret settled into the base of her stomach, she felt something else rise to the surface. Something that caused her to whirl around and stomp straight through Wesley's open door.

Cordelia proceeded over the threshold and stopped at the foot of his bed, taking in his peaked appearance. There was a wheezing sound emanating from his windpipe as he struggled to breathe. It gave her pause—stirring up a well of concern amidst the various other emotions churning in her gut. She felt Fred and Gunn's continued presence in the open doorway, but she didn't feel the need for privacy. They could hear this—in fact, they probably should.

"Wesley." She called his name softly, causing his eyelids to flutter open. He couldn't speak, she knew that, but the pitiful look in his eyes spoke volumes. Bracing herself, she went on. "I'm sorry this happened."

His eyes said he was grateful—relieved, even.

"I know why you did what you did." She said, working to keep her voice steady and her face a mask of indifference. "I get it. You thought you were protecting Connor… Doyle told me everything." She watched as Wesley's face changed at the mention of Doyle's name. His eyes clouded over, anticipating the wide right turn that was coming. "But, you were wrong. The prophecy was a fake, just like Doyle said it was. Connor was never in danger. Not from anyone who wasn't _you_."

Pain. Sorrow. Shame. Too many emotions flashing through those bloodshot blue eyes of his.

Cordelia took a step closer to the bed, raising her chin in the air and regarding him through narrowed eyes. "Doyle warned you, Wes. And you—what? Decided some shady, time-hopping demon with a skin condition was more trustworthy than the man you've been fighting beside for the past three years?!"

There was an argument in Wesley's eyes, as if he was trying to say he had good reason. As if he was telling her she knew the reason. Whatever he wanted to say, she knew it wasn't good enough. It only succeeded in adding fuel to her fire.

"So, fine—you didn't trust Doyle and that's bad enough—but why didn't you come to me?!" She demanded, balling her hands into fists. "I'm Cordelia—the one who specializes in the bitter truth, remember? The one you've known the longest, who was fired right alongside you last year. Why didn't you trust _me_?!"

Wesley was in a state of despair now, her words having hit their mark.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Fred and Gunn finally moved away from the door, affording her the privacy she had never requested. They probably couldn't stand to watch; couldn't stand to hear her pain, because it highlighted the extent of Wesley's betrayal.

He hadn't just betrayed Angel. He had betrayed _all_ of them.

"I thought we meant something to each other. That we were family." Cordelia let go of some of the hostility, resorting to a resigned sort of sadness. "Guess I was wrong." The contempt laced itself back into her voice as she gave him a final warning—one that was for his own good. "I wouldn't come back to the hotel, if I were you. Angel isn't feeling nearly as forgiving as the rest of us."

There was a brief look of panic in Wesley's eyes, as she turned her back on him and strode out of the room. Passing Fred and Gunn who still lingered in the hallway, Cordelia didn't stop moving until she'd exited the building, crossed the parking lot and found Doyle, hunched on a curb, staring at his shoes, twiddling an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

He looked up as she approached, his pale eyes catching the sunlight—beautiful, but sad. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to be hugged by him. Instead, she held out a hand to help him off the curb.

"Here's the plan." She announced, as his fingers laced through hers and he stood to meet her eye level, slipping the unsmoked cigarette over his ear. They began sauntering hand-in-hand toward their parked vehicle, which was actually Angel's borrowed convertible. "We swing by the hotel to say goodnight to Connor, because nothing can brighten an otherwise dismal night quite like baby snuggles." The sliver of a smile, forced its way onto the corner of Doyle's mouth. " _Then_ , I'm thinking we grab some comfort food and hunker down for the next few days. Just you and me… and Clover and Dennis, of course. What do you say?"

A soft chuckle escaped his lips. "I think that sounds like a good plan, Princess. A really good plan."


	47. Double or Nothing, Part 1

**47\. Double or Nothing, Part I**

The potent smell of bleach stung his nostrils, causing Doyle's eyes to slowly flutter open in the pitch black bedroom. He didn't bother to roll over and reach for his bedmate; even in his drowsy disorientation he guessed that Cordelia wasn't there. Rubbing his face sleepily, he glanced over at the digital clock on her bedside table. The numbers confirmed what his foggy brain suspected—it was a most unusual hour for house cleaning.

Doyle groaned as he rolled over, and pulled back the covers. Clover, who had been resting snuggly against his shoulder, mewled with annoyance as he disrupted her peaceful slumber. "Sorry, girl." He mumbled, gently patting the cat's head before he stood up and padded across the bedroom carpet.

He moved out into the hallway, his nose leading the way. It took him through the dining room and into the doorway of the kitchen, where he found the source of the overpowering aroma.

There, in the middle of the brightly lit kitchen, was his girlfriend, scrubbing furiously at one corner of the linoleum floor. She was on her hands and knees doing the dirty work, her hair pulled up in a messy bun and covered by a kerchief. She paused to dunk her scrub-brush into a soapy bucket of water and then went back to her fastidious scrubbing.

"Cordy?" He croaked from the doorway, scratching confusedly at his messy bedhead.

"Oh, hi. What are you doing up?" She asked innocently, as her head popped upward. She didn't stop scrubbing as she addressed him.

"What are ya doing?" He wondered if he was still sleeping. It was possible this was merely a very odd dream.

This time she did pause. Sitting back on her heels, she ran a forearm over her sweaty brow, still gripping the scrub brush with her other hand. "I just thought I'd do a little spring cleaning."

"At three in the mornin'?" He wondered, still in disbelief that she was both up at this hour and cleaning the apartment. Not that she wasn't keen on having a clean house, but more often than not, it was Dennis who kept it that way, rather than Cordelia.

"I couldn't sleep." She added, as if that part wasn't already obvious. "Figured I might as well be productive." With that, she turned away from him, resuming her former activity.

Doyle stood there for an extended beat, letting his brain catch up as he watched her work diligently. Finally, he sauntered further into the room, settling himself down onto one of the kitchen chairs. "Ya wanna talk?"

"Talk about what?" She grunted, keeping her back turned to him. He could see the muscles in her neck and shoulders flexing with tension—she was putting a lot of effort into her scrubbing. "The fact that I was laying in bed when it suddenly dawned on me—I can't remember the last time we cleaned this floor! How gross is that?"

Leaning an elbow on the table and resting his groggy head in his hand, Doyle squinted his eyes at her backside. "I can't say I recall ya ever losing sleep over the cleanliness of our apartment before now." He paused, expecting her to come back with a retort, but she continued working as if he wasn't even speaking. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Ah… ya don't think maybe your insomnia has a little something to do with Wesley? Could be you're feeling bad about what went down and transferring all your feelings onto the, ah, linoleum, there."

She abruptly tossed her scrub brush into the bucket of water with a thunk. The water sloshed up and over the sides causing a puddle on the floor. Dennis helpfully sprang into action, sectioning off a chunk of paper towel to blot up the minor flood as Cordelia turned away from her cleaning supplies.

"Of course, it has to do with Wesley." She agreed snippily, wiping her soapy hands on her sweatpants as she stood up from her crouched position. "And Holtz and Sahjhan and all the countless other big bads who were circling the hotel like vultures up until we tricked them all into believing Connor's been sucked into a hell dimension! But, that's all over now, right? Time for us to put it all behind us and move on. So, that's what I'm doing. Moving on. Going back to normal."

"And cleaning the apartment in the middle o' the night strikes you as normal?" Doyle asked rhetorically, hoping she'd see just how abnormal that was.

"You have _your_ way of moving on—as evidenced by the pack of cigarettes in your jacket pocket—and I have mine." She blustered, navigating the semi-wet floor to yank him up out of his chair and hustle him toward the archway. "Now get yourself back to bed. I don't wanna be dealing with Mr. Grumpy-pants in the morning."

He allowed her to drive him out of the kitchen, but didn't proceed straight back to the bedroom as she'd instructed. Instead, he lingered in the dining area, watching as she turned away from him, exhaled heavily and squatted back down beside her bucket to retrieve her scrub brush. "Dennis, I think we need more bleach," she mumbled under her breath.

A moment later she was back at work, trying desperately to wash away her feelings.

Doyle wanted to say something comforting. Wanted to assure her that they'd done the right thing and everything would be alright in the future. Once they got past the grief of losing Wesley's friendship, they'd see that things turned out as well as they could have hoped. They had a lot to be thankful for.

He wanted to say all that, but he didn't entirely believe it. So, he turned away and let her be.

The bleach wouldn't wash away the guilt or the blame. It certainly couldn't erase the heartache. But, she was right—they all had their own ways of coping. At least hers weren't hurting anything aside from the linoleum.

* * *

"All I'm saying is, it's unhealthy." Cordelia declared as she shifted a large bag full of wallpaper samples from one arm to the other.

"I told ya—I threw out the pack." Doyle assured her, scrambling to keep up with her rapid pace. He, too, was loaded down with multiple bags containing paint samples and curtain fabrics. He'd wisely opted to leave the large rolls of carpet samples in the trunk of Angel's car—even wiser, he planned to have the big guy get them himself once the sun went down.

Continuing on her recent type-A pattern, Cordelia had dragged Doyle all over town, collecting everything she'd need for her next "moving on" project, which was remodeling Angel's fire-damaged apartment. Having hit every home goods store in a twenty-mile radius, they had finally made it back to the front gates of the Hyperion. And Doyle was eager to get inside and unload his heavy burden.

"Have you even been listening to a word I've said?" Cordelia scoffed in reply. "I wasn't talking about your disgusting bad habits—I'm talking about Connor! Stuck inside the hotel, all day, every day, lacking fresh air and scenery. It's no way to live."

"Ah, right…" Doyle replied, maneuvering his packages so he could hide behind them as he followed her through the front gates. Although, he wasn't exactly fooling her into thinking he _had_ been listening. "Well, good thing he's just a baby, yeah? He's got the essentials—food, diapers, toys, a father who loves him—probably doesn't notice the lack o' variety in his life."

"Thank goodness for that," she grumbled, shaking her head. "But, turning Connor into a cave-baby isn't a permanent solution to this problem. Eventually, he _will_ need to leave the Hyperion." She crossed the front courtyard, pausing only when she reached the front door. "Tell me you disagree, oh, wise one."

Doyle shrugged behind his many bags. "I'm not saying I disagree. But an afternoon at the playground isn't worth compromising his newfound safety, darlin'."

Protecting Connor—his existence, his life, his livelihood—it had been Doyle's main objective for years now. And finally, after all the turmoil and close-calls, he could breathe a little easier. They all could. Connor was safe for the first time in his short life. No one knew he was still there at the hotel. And as long as he remained hidden inside its walls, no one would know to come after him.

That veil of safety would be lifted eventually. Doyle knew the day would come when taking the baby outside was a necessity. At that point, it would be back to square one. But, right now, it wasn't a necessity, which meant they had to enjoy it while it lasted.

"I have an idea!" She said brightly, resting her hand on the front door handle, but not yet opening the door, no matter how much Doyle willed her to do so. "Why doesn't your pal, Penny, come with us? He could use the same illusion from last time, except in reverse. He could make Connor look like the toy bear! I'm sure he'd be happy to do it once I tell him about all the hot, single moms that hang out at the jungle gym."

Shifting his weight yet again, Doyle nearly dropped one of his bags, narrowly managing to catch it between his fingers before it hit the ground. His reply came out strained as he focused on his armload. "Two demons and a lady hanging out with a stuffed toy? That doesn't strike ya as kinda—well, the word insane comes to mind."

"I see your point. The toy bear idea is ridiculous." Cordelia agreed, finally yanking the door open and catching it with her toe so Doyle could enter first. "Y'think he can do a poodle?"

Doyle shook his head at the oddity of that statement, but then tilted his head as he reconsidered. As strange as it sounded, disguising Connor as a puppy might not actually be _that_ crazy. Either that, or he'd been dating Cordelia far too long to have any sense for logical thinking.

He was about to enter through the door Cordelia was holding open, when a pair of nearly-identical bickering demons suddenly appeared—they were on their way out, and very much in their own world, barely noticing the two perplexed humans watching them leave.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud, Syd—that girl's not a sixteenth your age!" One of the demons squawked, whacking the other on the arm. "Put your eyes back in your head." At that moment, Doyle noticed that the second demon, had literally removed his eyes, and was holding them behind his back, getting a final view of whoever was inside the lobby. The first demon, whacked the second demon once again. "I mean it, ya doddering old coot! Put 'em back in!"

Cordelia's features twisted with disgust as the demon held his eyes in her direction before begrudgingly popping them back into their sockets and hurrying along to catch up with his mate. "Men. You're all the same, no matter the species." She complained, giving the door a final kick open and then swiftly moving through it. Doyle quickly caught the door with his own foot and scooted his way inside, barely managing to hold onto his multiple bags.

Once inside, Doyle saw that Fred and Gunn were standing by the front counter, having just shown the demon couple out. "New clients?" Doyle wondered, nodding over his shoulder to their recent visitors as he followed in Cordelia's footsteps toward the table, where he could finally dump his bags.

Fred had a vaguely dreamy expression on her face, as she turned away from the large man beside her. "That was Monica and Syd; they've been married for three hundred years—they have a Skench demon in their lair." She said the words as if she was reciting a love poem. "Charles is gonna get rid of it for them." She lifted a machete off the top of the counter and handed it to Gunn with a sweet smile. Her hand lingered over his for much longer than necessary, their eyes locking in silent communication.

"Hmmm. I've dealt with a few Skenches in my day." Doyle spilled his bags down beside the one Cordelia had already started to unload. "Need any help?"

"Nah, man, it's cool." Gunn replied, keeping his own moony smile focused squarely on Fred's face. "I can handle one little leprechaun."

"Hey." Cordelia objected, as she sorted through some of the items she'd dumped out on the tabletop. "That's derogatory… I think."

Doyle tossed her an amused wink. "Actually, Skench demons are probably what led to the whole leprechaun myth. Just a bit heavier on the phlegm."

"Yeah. Watch out for the phlegm." Fred agreed, her doe eyes still locked onto Gunn's.

"Yes, dear." He playfully replied, leaning down to plant a quick smooch on her lips. He accepted the machete and headed off toward the front doors, leaving a beaming Fred in his wake.

Doyle felt an elbow nudge against his ribcage as Cordelia leaned closer to his ear. "When did _that_ happen?"

"I thought y'knew they'd been seeing each other." Doyle answered, keeping his voice low so Fred wouldn't overhear. Although, he doubted Fred could hear anything from her location a million miles away—it was clear by the dazed expression on her face that she was still daydreaming about the man who'd just left her side.

"Sure, I knew there was something going on, a little fling or whatever. But that looked…" She gestured with her hands and eyes as if he was supposed to infer the rest of her statement. In fact, he knew what she was insinuating about Fred and Gunn. He could see it, too—the difference was he'd seen it long before it had actually happened.

"There they are! Just the former monarchs of my home dimension I was looking for!" Lorne's gregarious voice echoed through the lobby as he appeared at the top of staircase and rapidly began descending. "Boy, do I have a surprise for you two!"

Two heads popped up in unison, both Doyle and Cordelia wondering what could possibly have Lorne so excited to see them. But, it didn't take long for them to figure it out—the two colorful figures hurrying along in Lorne's footsteps were impossible to miss. "Your majesties!"

"Nixa?!" Doyle exclaimed, hardly believing his eyes.

"And her big hunk o' undefeated champion, brother, the Groosalugg." Cordelia added, with equal surprise. She turned to Doyle, flashing him a tentative smile. He shrugged in reply to her unspoken question and the two of them immediately moved forward to greet their incoming guests.

The Pylean siblings looked exactly as they had in their home world—Nixaleen, the picture of a medieval beauty, with her flared satin gown and long, flowing red hair; the Groosalugg, doing his best _Beastmaster_ impression.

Fred had naturally migrated in their direction as well, her posture becoming tight and uncomfortable as she undoubtedly imagined the means of transportation these two half-demons had used to land on their doorstep. Unsurprisingly, she wasn't a big fan of portals. She flashed them both a timid smile, hunching her shoulders and seeming to revert to her more insecure Pylean-slave body language.

"What are ya doing here?" Doyle asked the obvious question, as the fetching demoness and her muscle-clad brother curtsied and bowed respectively.

"There has been an uprising, my Prince." Nixaleen answered, keeping her head bowed toward the floor tiles as she addressed Doyle. "The monarchy is no more."

"Oh, no." Cordelia said with a gasp. "I don't have to return my tiara, do I?"

"At least you two kids got outta there with your heads still attached." Lorne remarked to the siblings, clucking his tongue against his teeth. "I doubt you have the genes to survive that—am I right?"

"But, what are ya doing _here_?" Doyle reiterated.

"We no longer have purpose in Pylea." Nixaleen explained contritely, clasping her hands together. "But our duty to your majesties remains."

"We have come seeking mercy." The Groosalugg elaborated, taking to one knee as he, too, kept his eyes cast downward. "We were tasked with governing your people, and it is our failure that has cost you the throne. Now we prostrate ourselves, hoping that you will be as gracious today as you have proven to be in the past."

"Uh huh." Cordelia said uncertainly, her eyes darting to Doyle's to make sure they were on the same page. "No problem. We're totally gracious. Right, Doyle? Tell them how gracious we are."

"Ah… yeah." Doyle agreed, equally taken aback. "You can, ah, stop with the prostratin' there." He insisted, encouraging the Groosalugg to return to his feet.

Nixaleen's face lit up and she raised her head to show off her pitch black eyes and the slight blush of her cheeks. "I felt certain your benevolence would be unchanged. Our unending gratitude is yours, your majesties."

"Glad that's all settled." Cordelia enthused, her eyes darting around to the various smiles, some more genuine than others. One awkward beat ticked by followed by another. "So, do you guys need a ride somewhere? Say, the bus station, for instance?"

"This was our only intended destination, Princess." The Groosalugg answered politely.

"That's what I was afraid of." She muttered as an aside for Doyle's ears only.

"This land is most curious." Nixaleen added, with a perplexed smile. "We encountered no horses or cattle of any kind. Yet, there are many oddly-shaped carts which move rapidly of their own accord, unyielding to those in their path—is it magic that makes this so?"

"More like combustion." Lorne commented offhandedly. "Fermentation is a much more magical process, if you ask me."

"Um… I don't think you can send them out there on their own." Fred whispered into Doyle's ear. "Not with the traffic and the… people. L.A. takes some getting used to."

He nodded absently, understanding her concerns for their safety. "Well… ya did come all this way just to see us, yeah?"

Cordelia's face had been trapped in a frozen smile, but it loosened as she gave a resigned sigh. "Here we go…"

"You should stay here." Doyle suggested. "We've got plenty o' space."

"We could order in tacos for dinner." Fred squeaked. "If you're hungry, that is."

"Thank you, your majesties! Your generosity is beyond compare!" Nixaleen cried out with excitement.

"Your Earthly palace is most exceptional." The Groosalugg agreed. "We are most honored to be guests here."

"Oh, _we_ don't live here." Cordelia answered, gesturing to she and Doyle. "Thank God." She added under her breath, before nodding toward their demon guests and indicating they should follow her up the stairs. "Welcome to the Hyperion. Guess I'd better show you to your rooms…"


	48. Double or Nothing, Part 2

**48\. Double or Nothing, Part II**

"The navy is too dark, don't you think?" Cordelia frowned at the colored palette of paint samples in front of her. She was standing in the scorched remains of what was formerly Angel's apartment. Pushing a lock of shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear, she continued to assess the dismal surroundings with a no-nonsense attitude. "I thought we could try and brighten up the place? What do you think of pastels?"

"I like it dark." Angel responded, a faint glimmer of worry in his eye. He was standing off to the side with his arms folded across his chest and a rapidly deepening frown etched across his brow.

"Well, sure. You're a bloodsucking creature of the night who's spent the better part of two centuries perfecting the art of brooding. But, this isn't just about you. Connor lives here, too, now." She reminded him. Crossing to the singed mattress, she dropped the page of dark blues into the pile of other charts and samples she'd spread out there. A few of the pages slid across the fabric, landing against a boot that was propped up on the side of the bedframe.

The boot in question belonged to Doyle who was seated in a nearby chair, legs stretched out in front of him as he gnawed on the end of his pencil. "Common species of nightshade," he read aloud from the open crossword puzzle in his lap. "Eight letters."

"Eggplant." Angel answered without missing a beat.

Doyle's brows went up as he mentally filled in the letters and happily scribbled them into the empty boxes.

"Not a terrible idea." Cordelia fished for one of her many color palettes, successfully retrieving the correct one from the pile. "Eggplant might work."

"That's purple." Angel said with revulsion. "I don't like purple."

"Then maybe we should just keep it this way." Cordelia suggested facetiously, throwing a frustrated glance in Angel's direction. He'd rejected every one of her suggestions. If she didn't know better, she'd think he didn't want his burnt out shell of an apartment to be restored. "Who knows? Charcoal could be the new trend this season."

"Let me see the burgundy again." Angel deflected, sauntering out of his corner and doing his best to look somewhat interested in Cordelia's efforts. His eyes roamed over the deeper reds and maroons, trying to picture what the room had looked like before the fire.

She handed him a stack of color charts and then retreated, rolling her eyes behind his back. Circling around the bed, she plopped herself down on the mattress beside Doyle's crossed ankles, slightly annoyed that he seemed far more content to work on his stupid puzzle than to help her with her redesign project. Granted, Doyle's taste in wallpaper was only marginally better than his taste in clothes, but the fact that he didn't even care to weigh in on the color palette irked her.

"Can you pass me the entertainment section?" She badgered him, shaking gently on the toe of his shoe. "Unless you think they'd be into carpentry and painting. I mean, that Groosalugg sure does look handy—bet he likes to work shirtless."

That got Doyle's attention. He raised his head from his paper and shot her a wary look. "Who? What?"

"Um, hello, our out of town guests." She responded in her best "duh" voice. "What? You thought you'd lock them in the hotel with Connor? They're half-people, Doyle. They wanna have fun."

"They didn't just roll in from outta town, darlin'. They're from another dimension." Doyle countered. "You shoulda seen the altercation the Groosalugg had with the elevator doors this morning; and I don't even wanna tell ya what Nixa did to the mailman. Point is—I think they're gonna need more than a 24-hour adjustment period before we take 'em out in public."

"Is that your way of saying you left the rest of the paper downstairs?" Cordelia asked defiantly, making it clear that he was doing little to sway her desire for a night out.

"On the counter." Doyle admitted begrudgingly.

Patting the toe of his shoe with satisfaction, Cordelia pushed herself upward off the mattress and flounced across the room toward the front door. She still had that slightly manic air about her that had been present the last few days—it was as if she couldn't stand still. Couldn't let herself have time to _think_.

As she left the room, Doyle let out a resigned sigh, lifting his paper and giving it a good shake to straighten out the willowing pages. As he scrutinized the next item on the unfinished word puzzle, his face fell. "High-end shoe designer. Nine letters."

The beleaguered look he got from Angel told him he was definitely barking up the wrong tree. Tipping his chair forward and placing his feet flat on the floor, Doyle stood up. "Think I'll just be finishing this downstairs."

He folded up the paper and stuck the pencil over his ear. The vampire was now meticulously comparing several shades of dark red, and Doyle figured it was as good a time to exit as any. He jogged down the hallway to catch up with his swiftly retreating girlfriend, catching her on the second floor landing.

"Hey, why ya so worried 'bout showing Nixa and Groo a good time?" Doyle wondered as he followed her toward the main staircase. "Something tells me they'll be easy to impress."

"I have a better question—why are you so complacent with _us_ living in the dark ages?" Cordelia snapped back at him, beginning her descent down the stairs. "It's like you don't even care if anything changes."

"Well… I liked the navy." He offered, assuming she was angry about his lack of enthusiasm over the remodeling. He hurried his pace to keep up with her.

"Sure—let's just throw a shoddy layer of paint over the burnt out walls and continue to live in them. That doesn't scream metaphor or anything." She huffed as she continued her downward trajectory at a rapid clip without turning to face him.

"Listen, Princess, I know you've been feeling outta sorts lately—I feel it, too." He said empathetically. "Things'll get better. It just takes time."

"How much time?!" She challenged.

"I dunno." Doyle replied, staying on her heels. "It takes as long as it takes."

"You told me it was over!" She accused, reaching the bottom of the stairs and whirling around to face him. Now he could see just how much turmoil was brewing in her dark eyes. He stopped short, and then took one final step down to be at her eye level. "We fixed what went wrong; changed the entire course of the future. I'm not saying we need to break out the champagne and throw a party, but I mean… if the 'big threat' is really behind us than shouldn't we be living normal lives again? Not _actually_ normal, but normal for us?"

"Ah… well, I thought that's what we were doing." Doyle answered cautiously. "Helping the hopeless, spending more money than we have to spend, looking out for the prophesied child of our vampire boss… all that's normal, for _us_."

"But, I don't feel normal!" She argued. "In fact, I feel worse than ever. Like I can't even take a proper deep breath." She said digging her fist into her solar plexus, and then narrowing her eyes at him accusingly. "And you're not helping!"

"I… huh?" Doyle's mouth fell ajar, as he tried to think of what she could possibly need from him that he wasn't already giving her. He was there for her both physically and emotionally—he'd listened to her vent, enabled her maniacal cleaning and redecorating, and held her in his arms whenever she needed to be held. He had nothing left to give. "What did I do?"

"Nothing!" She cried, throwing her hands up in the air in mild exasperation. "That's exactly my point. Ever since we saved Connor, you've been so… I dunno _, relaxed_? Which, sounds like a good thing in theory—except for the fact that our lives _still_ revolve around waiting for the next big bad to come along and ruin everything!"

"That tends to be the story of our lives, Princess." Doyle pointed out, reaching out to touch her elbow. He knew that feeling. He was living with that same sense of dread and always had been. He hated that it was doing such a number on her, but he knew she would pull through—she'd always been the strong one. "I wouldn't say I'm relaxed exactly… well, yeah, okay. Maybe I'm feeling a little relaxed at the moment, since no one knows Connor's still in this dimension. But if it makes ya feel better, it's probably a short-lived phenomenon. I'm sure I'll be driving myself to drink again in no time."

"That doesn't make me feel better." She said sadly. "It just confirms what I already suspected… nothing's changed, other than the fact that Wesley's gone. And nothing _will_ ever change. Connor will always be in danger; welcome to the new status quo."

Her bitter declaration hung heavy in the air, and Doyle instantly regretted being walked into that particular revelation. He was supposed to console her, assure her that the big threat against Connor _was_ over. That the baby was safe now and their work—and their many sacrifices—wouldn't be in vain. He opened his mouth to try and backtrack, but the sound of the front door opening gave him pause.

Their heads lifted in unison, taking note of the well-dressed demon who entered the lobby. Doyle knew the guy on sight and his blood ran cold as he made the silent identification.

"Hi, can we help you?" Cordelia automatically chirped, assuming the demon was a prospective client. Somehow Doyle doubted this particular demon—known as the Repo Man—would come to them for assistance. If he had, it wasn't likely they'd be willing to give him the sort of help he would require.

The Repo Man was wearing shades, which he tilted down on the bridge of his nose as he sized up the place. "Is this Angel Investigations?" He asked in a heavy cockney accent. His eyes darted to and fro, finally making their way over to Doyle's face. It was then that demon froze in place—he obviously recognized Doyle, too.

The jig, as they say, was up.

"That's us alright." Cordelia answered faux-brightly, as she took a step toward their prospective client. "Helping the hopeless since '99. What can we do for you, Mister…?"

"His money's no good here, Cordy." Doyle interjected, taking a step forward and reaching out an arm to keep his girlfriend safely behind him.

Although confused, Cordelia knew better than to question Doyle's perception when it came to other demons. Therefore, she moved closer to his back, placing her hands on his shoulders and keeping herself partially shielded. "What my colleague means is—we'll need to run your credit first." She said through a tight smile. "Standard procedure."

"Ya got another thing coming if y'think we'd help the likes of you." Doyle growled at the Repo Man, ready to call on his quills, but doubting that would even up the match. It would, however, afford Cordelia ample time to run upstairs and alert Angel to the danger.

In theory, anyway.

"Doyle." The Repo Man addressed him by name, a small smirk playing on his malevolent demon mouth. "Nice digs."

All Doyle's muscles were tight, which Cordelia could undoubtedly feel under her fingertips. This was not a demon they could trust. For good reason. "Still working for the Soul Sucker?"

"Oh, come now, Doyle—don't make me sound like a bad guy." The Repo Man objected, opening his arms wide as if putting himself on display. "Mr. Jenoff is a man of the people, not unlike what you do here—he helps those who can't help themselves. Gives them what they need. Happiness, money, love… you name it." He tilted his head down, continuing to peer at the two of them over the top of his sunglasses. "All he asks is that the debt is repaid when the time comes."

"'Round here we're in the business of saving souls. Not selling 'em." Doyle's voice came out low and threatening. It would have sent most people running for their lives, but this demon only laughed.

"I'm not here to hire you." The Repo Man explained. "I'm collecting on an old debt. See, once upon a time, there was a guy who thought he didn't have a future—who willingly wagered his soul for something he needed at one moment in time. Now, he wants to give that soul to someone else. Problem is, it's not his to give away. It's the property of Mr. Jenoff."

Cordelia gasped, her fingernails digging into Doyle's shoulder blade as she jumped to the worst possible conclusion, which was also the most obvious one. Doyle couldn't exactly blame her for that. Still, he wasn't about to let such a baseless accusation stand. "I don't owe Jenoff anything!" He argued, waving an angry index finger in the air. "So, you can just see your way outta here, bud."

The Repo Man let a malicious smirk creep across his face. "Maybe I got the wrong address." He supposed, pushing his sunglasses back up over his eyes. "Good seeing you, Doyle."

"Can't say the same." Doyle grunted at the Repo Man's back as he turned and walked away, disappearing out the front door and leaving a blanket of tension over the two remaining occupants of the lobby.

As soon as he was gone, Cordelia paced away from Doyle, lifting a distressed hand to her forehead. "Did you hear that? That was the sound of the other shoe dropping." She moaned. "Why would you wager your soul, Doyle?! Of all things!"

"Hey, wait a minute!" He shouted back, his eyes growing wide as her indictment hit him square in the chest. "I didn't—"

"We have to go tell Angel." She cut him off, pointing up the staircase they'd just descended. "He needs to fix this. I can't have a soulless boyfriend!"

Doyle rolled his eyes skyward, holding his hands out to keep her from rushing to get the big hero. "Cordy, I swear to ya. There's nothing to fix here."

"How am I supposed to believe that?" She shot back, crossing her arms over her chest. "We've been down this road before, Doyle. I knew it was a bad idea for you to go back to your old sources."

"Listen, darlin'." He closed his eyes, and tried to straighten out his thoughts. When he reopened them, he made sure there was nothing to see but sincerity. "I don't have the greatest track record, yeah? No secret I fell on some hard times and it nearly cost me various parts o' my anatomy. But trust me when I tell ya… my soul was never up for the taking. It's always been the one thing I've looked to keep, demon or not."

Cordelia frowned, clearly conflicted by the disagreement between her head and her heart. Thankfully, it was her heart that won out, and Doyle saw her soften. "So, you're saying that soul sucking creep _actually_ got the wrong address?"

"Not bloody likely." Doyle answered succinctly, running a hand through his hair. "My guess is Jenoff's doing some browsing."

"Looking for something valuable? Like a collector's item, perhaps." Cordelia guessed, her eyes being drawn back up the stairs where the owner of that collector's item was still sifting through paint samples.

Doyle nodded, sharing her thought pattern. "Good thing for us Angel's not a betting man, yeah?"

* * *

Doyle was lounging on the armchair in his living room, casting awkward glances at the two inter-dimensional refuges currently taking occupancy on his sofa. They seemed very much out of place in the contemporary setting of his and Cordelia's apartment, even having traded their medieval Pylean attire for borrowed clothes. Before the siblings sat two pints of a frothy gold liquid, which they eyed precariously. The beer was a last resort, having exhausted all other forms of entertainment that could be found in the confines of the apartment.

"This is… popular with your people?" The Groosalugg wondered, lifting the glass to give the contents closer inspection; he sniffed the mound of foam on top and pulled his head back abruptly as he accidentally snorted some of it up his nostrils. He rubbed at the tip of his nose to keep himself from sneezing.

"Extremely." Doyle assured them, reaching for his own glass and holding it out in an impromptu cheers. He took a nice long gulp and placed the glass back down with a punctuating clunk. "Nothing quite like a cold brew."

Nixaleen took a tentative sip of her drink and tried desperately to mask the disgust that sprung to her facial features. "It is a most curious flavor, sire." She said as politely as possible, returning her glass to the coffee table and subtly pushing it a few centimeters away from her. "And quite… frothy."

Doyle leaned back in his chair cushions, resting his hands on the plush arms on either side. He began drumming his fingers impatiently against the fabric. The silence wasn't getting any less uncomfortable. Of course, this meant Cordelia had been right all along—taking them out on the town would have been a much better option than sitting in their living room, trying and failing to come up with anything interesting to do or say.

He wasn't entirely wrong about how easy it would be to entertain the half-demon siblings, what he'd failed to account for was how mind-numbingly boring it would be for both he and Cordelia. Nixa and Groo were thoroughly mystified by the most simple of modern luxuries, such as the phenomenon of white noise playing across the television screen. And while they didn't object to pictured content, it resulted in far too many questions to be enjoyable for anyone else who happened to be watching. So too, a round of Scrabble had proved rather frustrating. While the Pyleans understood the rules easily enough, the board had very rapidly become an endless sea of unpronounceable consonants.

"I've got something!" Cordelia called from the dining room, where she'd been hunched over the entertainment section of the newspaper, which luckily, she'd had the foresight to snag from the office. She popped up out of her chair and bounded into the living room with the paper in her hand. "Dingoes Ate My Baby! They're at the Whisky-A-Go-Go tonight."

The Groosalugg stood abruptly, his muscles flexing as he looked ready to spring into action. "Fear not, Princess! Point me toward these baby-eating dingoes, and they shall be slain!"

Cordelia laughed and Doyle lifted a finger to massage the bridge of his nose. "That's, ah… Oz's band, yeah?"

"That's right, your little Bam Bam is back in town." Cordelia teased as she moved toward the Groosalugg to give his shoulder a reassuring pat. "The Dingoes are a band. They don't actually eat babies—they play music. Which I realize you've never heard of because they don't have music in Pylea."

"Krevlornswath of the Deathwok clan has mentioned this _music_ you speak of." Nixaleen offered, trying to be helpful. She rose from the couch cushions with an encouraging smile plastered across her face. "Is it more satisfactory than beer?"

"Depends on who you ask." Cordelia replied dryly, flashing Doyle a pointed look. "So, what do you say? Up for some live music or should I break out the Jenga?"

Doyle's brows raised as he nodded his head in the affirmative. "You've sold me on the Whisky, love." He stood from his seat and gestured toward the front door. "What's say we head over early-like, get ourselves a good spot by the bar—ah, I mean, the stage."

Cordelia needed no further encouragement. She'd already prepped her jacket and purse, which were lying in wait on a dining room chair. Grabbing her belongings, and seeing that the others were doing the same, she headed toward the front door and yanked it open.

"Oh!" She said, coming up short. She hadn't expected there to be anyone else on the other side of the door. But there was Fred, hugging herself and crying her eyes out. "Fred, honey, what's wrong?" She asked gently, ushering the hysterical woman into the apartment.

Doyle approached, having just shrugged into his own jacket. "What is it? What happened?"

Cordelia shrugged, keeping her arm around Fred's shoulders, which were shuddering with every sob.

"It's Charles." The slender brunette finally choked out, her breath coming in short bursts. "I think he's in terrible danger."

The Groosalugg stood beside Doyle, as earnest as ever. "'Tis it a beast who threatens your kin, m'lady? Point me toward this creature, and it shall be a menace no more."

"My brother speaks true—every Drokken he's encountered, has met its untimely demise." Nixaleen added, equally as heartfelt. She stood just behind her brother, her hands clasped together across her bosom. Although she was wearing a blouse and jeans borrowed from Cordelia, she still carried herself as if she was wearing a gown fit for a palace.

Fred sniffled, looking at the half-demons with undisguised skepticism. "Um… okay, but… I-I dunno if there's an actual beast or not."

"Fred." Doyle interrupted gently, bring her red-rimmed eyes in his direction. "Why don't ya tell us what happened, yeah? Why d'ya think Gunn's in trouble?"

"Because he broke up with me!" She shouted, bursting back into tears. "And-and, he was really mean about it!"

Doyle and Cordelia glanced at each other over the top of Fred's bowed head. Anyone would have felt sympathy for a heartbroken friend, but most normal people wouldn't necessarily think it was good reason to fear for someone's life. Doyle and Cordelia, however, were not normal people.

"Soul sucker?" Cordelia suggested.

"Soul sucker." Doyle confirmed.

"Soul what?" Fred whimpered, raising her head to reveal trembling lips.

"I know where we needa go." Doyle assured her as he started to corral everyone out the door. "We'll call Angel on the way."


	49. Double or Nothing, Part 3

**49\. Double or Nothing, Part III**

There had been a very loud crunching sound when Angel's axe went through the wooden door, sending splintered wood in all directions. It was the sort of entrance one would expect from a valiant hero like Angel. The sort of entrance that caused everyone to freeze and look—including Jenoff who had been a hair's breadth away from taking Gunn's soul.

It had been a good start to the haphazard rescue operation. Enter the formidable figure with the axe and his ragtag group of armed warriors. Unfortunately, things had quickly spiraled from there.

Dispatching the three burly bouncer-types in the front vestibule was no problem, but once they'd actually made it onto the gaming floor of the casino, the tables rapidly turned. Nearly every individual in the place was a demon, and every single one of them was loyal to the man who owned the joint.

Outnumbered and surrounded, it had been up to Angel to cease the fight, step forward and negotiate. A good plan in theory. Angel had a tendency to negotiate with threats of violence, and generally speaking, they were quite effective. Unfortunately, in this instance, Angel opted for another strategy, one that turned Doyle's insides to mush.

The vampire with a soul decided he was a betting man, after all.

"Double or nothing." Doyle muttered to himself, still shaking his head in disbelief. He stood with Cordelia, Fred, Nixa and Groo on the other side of a velvet rope, engrossed in the happenings at the high-stakes table where Angel was currently seated. "Didn't see that coming."

"I really hope there's more to this plan than meets the eye." Cordelia grumbled nervously. Her arm was linked through Doyle's as she regarded the card dealer warily.

Doyle frowned as his eyes moved away from Angel and scanned the rest of the room. Amidst the spinning roulette wheels and twinkling slot machines was a sea of faces Doyle recognized. Not one of them was what he would call _friendly_. There was at least one demon by the bar who wanted to break every bone in his body, and another by the craps table who wished him dead. Then there was the guy leaning by the VIP lounge who didn't just want to kill him, but probably wanted to do it in as painful a manner as possible. It would have been unsettling if not for the fact that his best friend could lose his soul and go homicidal in a matter of seconds. If that happened, it was a good bet that none of those other demons would have a shot to kill Doyle before Angelus did the job.

Not exactly a comforting thought.

Doyle felt a wave of queasiness wash over him.

"I find this tournament most peculiar, sire." Nixaleen whispered from over Doyle's shoulder. Both she and her undefeated champion of a brother had joined the melee, despite the fact that Nixaleen had no actual fighting experience and was, in fact, of very little help. "There is no show of strength or agility. How can a numerical value etched onto parchment determine who is the more worthy champion?"

"Dumb luck." Doyle grunted in reply.

Fred stood beside him nervously wringing her hands. She looked like she wanted to use all 90 pounds of herself to battle her way across the room and be at Gunn's side. Meanwhile, Gunn's head was hung in shame at having dragged his friends into such a dangerous situation—that was certainly a feeling Doyle could empathize with. In fact, if it wasn't for the hard lessons Doyle had learned in the past, he might find himself yielding to the siren's call of the tables himself. As it was, he _had_ learned, and he wasn't willing to risk his happiness with Cordelia for all the money in Vegas.

Not that anyone in this establishment would allow Doyle anywhere near a table with all his limbs intact. That was a major deterrent as well.

Jenoff tossed a deck of cards on the table where Angel sat, nodding for the dealer to begin shuffling, which he obediently did. The grin on Jenoff's face told Doyle he wasn't sweating this for a second. "One hand of cards. If you win, this man..." He hoisted a thumb over his shoulder at Gunn. "...walks free. If I win, I keep his soul, and I get yours."

Angel gave a curt nod of agreement and Doyle felt his stomach do another flip-flop. He knew Angel was a decent card-player, but decent wouldn't cut it if the deck was stacked against him.

"Name your game." Jenoff prodded. "Omaha, Texas Hold 'Em, Seven Card Stud...?"

Angel looked from Jenoff to his dealer and then back at Jenoff, as he considered his options. "How about a simple cut of the deck?" He proposed. "High card wins."

Jenoff grinned; Doyle groaned.

"The vampire's not only got a soul, he's also got guts." The Soul Sucker said with a chuckle. Behind him, various minions, including the Repo Man, joined in the brouhaha.

"What's that you were saying about _dumb_ luck?" Cordelia whispered through a tight smile.

Jenoff gave a nod to the dealer, who completed his shuffling with a fancy riffle and then laid the deck on the table, face down.

"Feeling lucky?" Jenoff asked.

Angel didn't move, didn't blink. "After you."

Jenoff's grin broadened as he reached out and let his hand hover over the deck. A long beat passed, before he finally made a cut, and turned his card over.

Jack of Clubs.

A murmur rippled throughout the room. Jenoff maintained his smirk, which was understandable. Statistically speaking, it wasn't going to be easy for Angel to beat his card selection.

As Angel raised his fingers to his lips and blew on them for luck, Doyle gulped loudly. The vampire's fingertips inched forward, closer and closer to the moment of truth and Doyle found himself holding his breath.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Doyle spotted something that made him exhale, even before Angel had flipped the card. One familiar face in the crowd who was a game changer.

"King of Hearts!" Cordelia squealed with excitement, letting go of Doyle's arm so she could jump up and down, clapping her hands together. Fred, too, was over-the-moon, beaming uncontrollably at the man across the room from her, who had finally lifted his head. He was smiling, too. Even Angel had broken out into a shit-eating grin.

Doyle tried to contain his own smirk as he gave an understated nod to the man who'd saved all their asses— _again_. Penny subtly tipped his fedora and then disappeared into the dense demon crowd before he could be spotted by anyone else.

"Did you guys see that?!" Angel asked proudly, holding out his arms as Jenoff scowled behind him.

* * *

"I'm sorry." Gunn said as they trudged along the sidewalk to where his truck and Angel's convertible were parked. "I didn't mean to get y'all involved in this. It was my problem—I was willing to take the heat."

"By losing your soul?!" Fred asked in a horrified tone. She was clenching his arm as if her life depended on it. She had been doing that since the moment she'd been free to throw her arms around him. "How could you not tell us, Charles? Saving souls is what we do! How could you not tell _me_?"

"Ah… y'know, Fred, I know it's none o' my business, but as someone who's gotten into my own fair share o' troubles… ahem." Doyle piped in helpfully, avoiding Cordelia's eyes as he spoke. "Just, go easy on the guy, yeah?"

"Oh, don't even get me started with Doyle's sordid past." Cordelia agreed as they continued to walk down the street in a cluster. "There was this whole thing back in the day where he almost got Angel killed in a demon tournament. In fact, funny story—when that Repo guy came to the hotel this afternoon, I thought he was after Doyle… okay, I guess that wasn't so much a funny story as a bad flashback."

Doyle's eyes opened a little wider, as he prayed Cordelia would stop reminiscing. "Like I said… go easy."

Fred smiled knowingly, moving slightly closer to Gunn. "I should make him grovel a little first, right Cordy?"

"The apprentice has become the master." Cordelia enthused with a bob of her head.

Gunn gave Cordelia a brief side-eye, before tossing a glance over his shoulder at Angel, who was slogging along behind the others. "So, you think we should go back and put Jenoff outta business?"

"Maybe when things die down a bit." Angel replied with little interest. His head was bowed low and his hands were shoved in his pockets. His joy over winning in the casino had been soured when he'd discovered the "help" he'd received. Since then, he'd been pouting like a little boy.

Then again, they'd all be unhappy—and possibly dead—if Jenoff had seen what card Angel had _actually_ flipped over.

By now they'd reached the two parked vehicles and paused to disperse into separate groups. Fred and Gunn moved toward the truck and Angel opened the back door of his convertible to usher in the two Pyleans who'd been dutifully trailing behind them. Cordelia slid into the passenger seat.

"It was truly an honor to accompany you on your mission this evening." The Groosalugg announced, grinning from ear to ear. "I only wish I could've assisted during the battle of wits."

Doyle chuckled at that description, thinking wits had very little to do with what had transpired.

"Oh, dear brother, you are not the only undefeated champion amongst us." Nixaleen chastised her sibling, as she pushed him into the backseat of Angel's car. Before following him in, she turned to bat her eyelashes at the true hero of the night who'd quietly come up behind Doyle to see them off.

As he approached the group, Penny removed his fedora, revealing his set of horns. And if Doyle didn't know better, he'd swear the guy was blushing beneath his flourish of facial hair.

"Just gimme a minute." Doyle called to Angel. He and Penny moved a few steps away, pausing on the edge of the circular glow from the streetlight above. "I know words don't mean much in our world—but thanks again, man. Anyone see ya in there?"

"I'm not invisible, Doyle." Penny responded, still smiling over at the redhead who was now seated in the back of Angel's car. He plopped his fedora back on his head and grinned ever wider. "Odds are it'll get back to Jenoff I was there, and he ain't a stupid. But it was worth it."

"Is that right?" Doyle asked doubtfully, his eyes darting to and fro between the demon illusionist in front of him and the transplanted half-demon from another dimension in the backseat of the convertible. "All the same, you should probably lay low for a while, yeah? I'd hate to have ya lose your head on my account."

"I didn't risk my neck outta the goodness of my heart, pal." Penny reminded him, finally ungluing his eyes from the redhead. "You're just lucky you had an ace up your sleeve tonight—that, right there, is the woman of my dreams."

"Ya did it to impress the girl." Doyle said disbelievingly, eyeing Jenoff's casino sign, which glowed in the distance. "Shoulda known."

"So, what's the deal with her and Hercules over there?" Penny wondered. "Is it serious? Think I got a shot?"

* * *

Leaning against the window frame, Cordelia watched as the two figures below moved in and out of the shadows. They had been outside in the truck for a long while, undoubtedly hashing out the events that had nearly cost them their relationship and Gunn his soul. Now they had entered the front courtyard holding hands, and paused by the fountain for an impassioned kiss.

Cordelia found herself smiling, glad to see that they'd been able to work things out. It was a much-needed reminder that love could conquer all. Again and again.

She watched as they started to part from their romantic interlude, only to be swept back in, continuing to kiss each other senseless under the moonlit sky. Cordelia figured this was an appropriate point to walk away. Voyeurism had never been her thing.

A pair of arms took her by surprise, sliding into position around her waist. It felt natural, as if they belonged there. The feel of a warm body pressed against her back, the distinctive scent of her lover, it soothed her and she let herself relax into him, holding onto his arms with her own. Doyle planted a soft kiss just below her right ear, and then rested his chin on her shoulder, joining her in taking in the view below.

"Hmm, looks like Fred took my advice." He commented, the smile evident in his voice. "If it's any consolation—I'm sure he'll be making it up to her for a _long_ time."

"As he should." Cordelia agreed, watching as Fred and Gunn officially came up for air. They smiled madly at each other and then meandered out of sight. "I get it now."

"Get what?" Doyle wondered, removing one arm from her body so he could move beside her, occupying the other half of the space in front of the window. His left arm remained in its previous position, keeping her close.

She lifted her eyes to meet his, and gave him an appreciative smile. "Why you didn't want me to meddle… I could've screwed that up, huh?"

"Maybe." He allowed, and then shrugged his shoulders in further consideration. "Or maybe ya couldn't have stopped it even if ya wanted to. Some things are just… meant to be."

Cordelia rolled her eyes, but the smile didn't leave her lips. "If you really believed that then you wouldn't have bothered warning me off. Unless you were just trying to spare W—" She had been about to say Wesley's name, but she bit her tongue before she could finish the word. The less she mentioned him the better. The less it hurt that he was no longer around. "Um… other people's feelings?"

Doyle mulled that over for a brief moment. "On some level, yeah." He supposed. "But, really, I just didn't think ya should be nosing around in other folks' love lives, that's all." He punctuated his sentence with a wink. "It's in poor taste."

Her gaze slanted in his direction, noting the humor in his eyes and the dimple on his cheek. She instinctively nuzzled closer to his side. "Fine, you win." She conceded, letting her voice soften. "I'd rather focus on _our_ love life anyway."

Doyle didn't reply right away; he simply held her close. Eventually—and slowly—he once again wrapped both arms around her, this time, keeping them face-to-face. "I'd like that, too." He said sincerely, a trace of uncertainty glimmering in his eyes. "So, that whole bit earlier about things changing or not changing…? I mean, we're okay—you and me?"

Instead of answering with words, she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him sweetly on the lips, smiling as she did so.

"Seems like a yes." He remarked, wearing a grin of his own. "But, maybe you should elaborate."

He leaned in again, and captured her mouth for a second time, this time raising the room temperature substantially. Her fingers threaded through his hair and he walked her back a few steps until she gently bumped up against the wall behind her. Only then, did he allow her to come up for air—relieved to see the dreamy look in her eyes. It had, after all, been what he was going for. He just hadn't been sure he could get there under the circumstances.

"Definitely a yes." He whispered contentedly.

"Seeing Fred and Gunn down there, absorbed in their happy little bubble… it reminded me of us. How we used to be, anyway." She admitted, drawing her index finger downward from his collarbone to his belly button. "I don't know when our happy-bubble popped, but I think I know how to get it back."

"Yeah?" He wondered, gently resting his forehead against hers. "I'll do whatever it takes, Princess. Y'know that."

"Well, it's a _very_ involved plan, with _many_ different phases." She teased, tilting her head down the hallway, signaling it was time for them to move on to somewhere more private. "I hope you're up to the task."

"How expensive are these phases o' yours?" He bantered back at her, as they ambled along to room 505, their home away from home.

"You can't put a price on happiness, Doyle." She admonished him, batting her eyelashes in faux-innocence.

" _That_ expensive, huh?" He laughed. "Better talk to Angel 'bout some overtime."

"Oh, please, Angel doesn't believe in overtime." She deflected. "Besides, you can afford phase one of my glorious plan. It involves us being late for work tomorrow… and the day after… and the day after that."

Doyle's brows raised in appreciation. "Gotta say, darlin', I'm liking the sound o' this plan so far."


	50. The Price, Part 1

**50\. The Price, Part I**

The room was filled with Connor's giggles as he kicked around on the fuzzy blanket that had been spread across the floor. An array of colorful toys encircled him, and he seemed particularly fascinated by the wooden rocking horse that Doyle casually tipped back and forth with his shoe, just out of the baby's reach. It's eyes were googly plastic spirals, which moved back and forth along with the seesaw motion of the rocker.

Smiling down at the laughing baby, Doyle continued to amuse his small charge with the simple movement of the toy. A few feet to Doyle's left, an open window cast a large square of sunlight over the half-demon and the baby. Doyle had been more than a little surprised to enter Angel's newly refurbished room and find the curtains wide open. It made the room look almost cheerful, especially now that it had been restored to its former glory. Unfortunately, it also meant Angel could only watch as Connor wriggled with joy, rather than joining in the play.

"This is almost as good as the park." Doyle said, eying the vampire who sat sequestered in a shadowy corner of the room, quietly observing.

"No, it's not." Angel answered impassively. "But, it'll have to do."

"For how long?" Doyle wondered, keeping his voice light and his eyes trained on the happy little infant squirming across the blanket. "'Cause y'know, this whole not-leaving-the-hotel-bit is gonna make dating a challenge. Not to mention kindergarten."

"We'll figure something out." Angel insisted, remaining motionless in his chair. "We always do."

"Yeah…" Doyle hedged, abandoning the wooden toy once Connor's attention had shifted. The new object of desire was a plush stuffed porcupine that Cordelia was convinced bore a striking resemblance to Uncle Doyle.

"What?" Angel asked.

"I didn't say anything." Doyle replied, circling the baby's blanket to stand closer to his friend. He stopped at the edge of the sunlit patch, folding his arms over his chest.

"I know you didn't, but I also know you want to." Angel answered simply. "Spit it out, Doyle."

Doyle nodded along with Angel's acute observation, glad his friend knew him well enough to read between the lines. "We were lucky this last time, yeah? I knew what was coming and 'cause o' that we were able to prevent it." He said reflectively. "But that's it, bud. That's all I got. Now that Connor's still here—alive and well—my foreknowledge o' what's to come is limited to whatever the Powers feel like sharing."

"And your point?" Angel prompted, his mood darkening despite Doyle's attempt at vaguery.

"Well… considering he's the prophesied child of _the_ vampire with a soul, that could be a problem." Doyle pointed out. "He'll always be a target, man. The baddies will never stop coming."

"I'll always protect him." Angel replied gruffly. He had been glaring at Doyle, but finally broke the connection, turning his eyes back toward his child.

Doyle shifted his weight, trying to tread softy, even though he'd already managed to hit the nerve he was trying to avoid. "I know you'll try—and so will I. And Cordy and Gunn and Fred. There'll be no end to the trying." Doyle assured his friend. "But, what happens next time—and make no mistake, there will be a next time—and the time after that? What if he's gone before we can stop it? I don't have to tell ya what you'd be capable of under those circumstances, man."

Angel sat still and silent for an extended beat, watching as his son batted at the stuffed porcupine and cooed with excitement. "Don't ask me to do what I think you're asking me to do," he said in a low voice that sounded very much like a growl. "Not you. Not my best friend."

"I have to." Doyle replied, not without regret. " _Because_ I'm your best friend, and it's my job to save you." He admitted that, and it earned him a curious glance from Angel.

"This isn't saving me, Doyle! It's killing me!" He snapped, the vein in his neck starting to throb.

Doyle uncrossed his arms and leaned in to emphasize his point, not backing down from what he knew needed to happen. "Don't ya get it, man? Saving Connor _is_ saving you… nothing else I've done or ever will do matters half as much as this moment right here. It'll save us all—not just me and you and him, but the whole damn world. It's _that_ important."

"But…" The words appeared to lodge in Angel's throat. "You're asking me to give up my son."

Hearing those words out loud, and the heartbreaking way Angel uttered them, Doyle started to second-guess himself. How could he possibly ask Angel to do this? How could he even _want_ Angel to do this after everything he'd gone through to ensure Angel had a son in the first place? Doyle had wanted to see Angel happy—wanted him to be with the love of his life. And, there, squirming in the sunshine was Angel's true love. Connor was everything to him.

Which is why Doyle knew Angel would eventually agree to this plan.

"I'm asking you to give him a normal life. A good, safe, happy, _normal_ life." Doyle spoke quietly, respectfully.

"I want that for him." Angel agreed. "He deserves all that."

Doyle nodded, slowly moving to Angel's side and placing a comforting hand on the vampire's shoulder. "He'd still be your son, Angel—he'll always be that. No matter who raises him, or where he grows up... he'll always be his father's son. And he's gonna have your fightin' skills someday, I can tell ya that."

Angel smiled then—a small, bittersweet smile. "How? How do we make sure he's safe?"

* * *

The unspectacular rented station wagon pulled into the back alley of the Hyperion with Doyle at the wheel. The sun was just past set, so he wouldn't need to worry about blacking out any of the windows for the ride. As he eased the car into park, he noticed the slender figure leaning beside the rear exit, a grim expression molded to her face. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the emotional tumult of the next 24 hours.

Opening the driver's side door, he got out of the wagon and circled around the front of the car to where Cordelia was hugging herself, as if she'd fall apart if she let go. "Connor's stuff all packed?" He gently inquired, laying a comforting hand on her upper arm once he was close enough to do so.

"Yeah." She sniffled. "Fred and Gunn and Lorne are, um… _saying_ _goodbye_." She'd barely gotten the words out before her mouth collapsed and a cavalcade of tears followed, causing her body to shake with the sobs. Doyle didn't hesitate to pull her into his arms and let her continue to cry into the fabric of his shirt, which she did with no quarrel, although her arms still remained tightly wrapped around her midsection. His doubled over them.

The minutes ticked by and Doyle did nothing aside from hold her and lightly stroke her back. Eventually her crying ceased, and he heard nothing but a series of sniffles close to his ear. "This is all my fault." She mumbled into the damp cloth of his shirt collar. "If I hadn't complained so much about the danger and the status not being quo, you never would've convinced Angel to send him away."

Doyle held both her arms firmly as he looked her dead in the eye and shook his head adamantly. "That's not true—this has nothing to do with you, darlin'."

"Of course, it does." She insisted, wiping at her damp cheeks. "I said it would never be over and now you're making sure it is—cause and effect. I should've kept my big mouth shut."

"Cordelia." Doyle said her name firmly, but tenderly. "This isn't happening 'cause o' what ya said—this is happening 'cause it needs to happen. We needa keep Connor safe and this is the only way I know how to accomplish that, unless… you've got a better plan?"

Her mouth was still twisted into a frown, but she released it and her shoulders slumped with resignation. "I don't." Her eyes started to well up again as she continued her thought. "I'm just gonna miss him so much!"

Doyle folded her back into his arms and this time she unwrapped herself and hugged him back, seeking the comfort he could provide. "Shhh. It's alright now." He whispered soothingly into the top of her head. "He'll be living a good life."

"Just not with us." Cordelia mumbled back sadly.

The back door of the hotel swung open, causing Cordelia to stand up straight and hastily wipe the remaining evidence of her tears away. She knew that it wouldn't help Angel to see her fall apart, and as a result, she was willing to put on her bravest face for the remainder of their current mission. Doyle found her eyes once more, and saw the nearly imperceptible nod of affirmation. She would be okay. They both had to focus on Angel and Connor now.

"Here, let me get that." Cordelia offered, taking Connor's diaper bag from Angel, who was also in possession of the baby's car seat—with a jovial Connor nestled inside—and an additional bag full of clothes and toys. Doyle saw that the toy porcupine was in the baby's hand—in his mouth, in fact, as he was happily drooling on several of the soft quills. He felt himself choke up at the sight, mourning the fact that he'd no longer be Uncle Doyle to the little boy. But, like Cordelia, he swallowed his feelings and kept his expression impassive—bravery for Angel's sake. That's what this evening was all about.

"We need to get moving." Angel instructed them, keeping his own feelings buried deep. On the surface he was no nonsense. He opened one of the back doors of the wagon and placed Connor's seat inside, carefully securing the various buckles and latches that would ensure his son's safety during the journey.

Doyle and Cordelia exchanged another tentative glance behind Angel's back, silently communicating all the ways they wish this situation could be different. Finally, they parted, Doyle moved back toward the driver's side as Cordelia slid into the passenger's seat.

Once they were all settled into the rented vehicle, Doyle started the ignition and checked all his mirrors. To the naked eye, it would look like he was being an overcautious driver, but in actuality he needed to assure there weren't any spectators observing their little escape. He went so far as to morph into his spikes for a passing moment, boosting both his vision and his hearing, along with his super-sense of smell. There was no one around to bear witness—it was now or never.

Morphing back into his human face, Doyle lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror one last time. There he saw a heartwarming picture: Angel, leaning over Connor, assuring that he was tucked in tight.

"Ya ready, man?" Doyle asked.

"No." Angel replied, his eyes lifting to meet Doyle's in the mirror. "But we should go anyway."

Doyle nodded in reply, and shifted the car into reverse, backing them onto the empty street behind the alley.

On to the next phase of Connor's life. One that would include both a father and a mother. Maybe a white picket fence, too.

And a dog.

And a swing set.

It was for the best. That was the truth. Doyle knew that. Angel did, too.

But that didn't make it hurt any less.


	51. The Price, Part 2

**51\. The Price, Part II**

"So… it's a deal, then?"

Doyle had asked the question from his place in one of the two plush armchairs that occupied the cozy, little living room as his fingers danced nervously against the fabric. Angel sat steadfastly in the other, while Cordelia waited outside the house. She'd already said her final goodbye to Connor and didn't want to risk crumbling in the presence of his new family.

Across from the two demons, seated on a floral-patterned couch, was Doyle's ex-wife and her fiancé, with baby Connor held between them. His fist was already tightly wrapped around Harriet's index finger and he was shrieking with laughter at the goofy faces Michael made for his benefit. Doyle couldn't recall the child ever being so amused by a mere human face, silly or not.

Like a polaroid picture, the creation of this family was instant.

"Yes." Harry replied succinctly, finally tearing her eyes away from the happy baby in her arms and looking at Michael to assure they were in complete agreement. He nodded without hesitation and Harriet beamed. "We say yes… he's a beautiful boy, Angel. We'd be so incredibly happy to raise him as our own."

"Thank you." Angel replied in a muted tone, and Doyle wondered if he was going to say anything more. The vampire's jaw tightened, signaling that he was not.

"And, ah… you're okay with the suddenness of it all, yeah?" Doyle continued, rubbing his sweaty palms against the arms of his chair. "As in, right now, from this day forward and all that."

This time it was Michael who answered. "Well, if we're being honest… it's a little sooner than we had planned, but I guess that's life, right? We can definitely manage."

Connor's laughs ebbed away and in their place, he let out a series of grunts, followed by a dissatisfied yowl. Harriet giggled, lifting him off her lap and taking a whiff of his backside. "Wanna see if you can manage your first dirty diaper, _daddy_?" Harriet asked the man seated at her side, and Michael's face went three shades paler.

Angel stood from his chair, and nodded politely toward Michael who had taken the baby without argument, but had the distinct air of a man who'd never changed a diaper before. "I'll show you. Those sticky tabs can be a little tricky."

"That'd be… yeah, that'd be great." Michael said gratefully, standing with the baby securely in his arms and leading Angel through the arched doorway that led to the bedroom that would henceforth be known as Connor's—or whatever they decided to call him.

Harriet was beaming at the men and the baby as they left the room, and clasping her hands together as she admired them.

"I can't thank ya enough for agreeing to this." Doyle spoke up, pushing himself out of the armchair, crossing the small room and settling onto the couch cushion recently vacated by Michael.

"Thank _you_ , Francis." Harriet replied wholeheartedly. "This is a dream come true for us."

"Ah… before ya thank me, maybe I should go over the fine print again, yeah? Make sure ya really know what you're agreeing to here." He suggested. "No one can ever know who Connor really is. This has to look like he was always yours. And we're not just talking forged paperwork; it's gotta be mystical, Harry. Ya understand what that means?"

"I understand." She promised him.

"And you're okay with it?" He wondered, a little surprised at how willingly she and Michael had agreed to such unusual terms. "Both of you?"

"Ask me again next week." She deadpanned, causing his brows to furrow with concern. "Kidding—I get it, okay? Next week I won't remember this conversation ever happened."

Doyle let out a dry chuckle and eyed his wristwatch. "Never mind next week, ya won't remember fifteen minutes from now. But, it's not too late to change your mind…"

Harry's curls bounced around on her head as she shook it firmly. "I wanna do this, Francis. So does Michael. Sure, it is a little weird—agreeing to have our memories altered—but it's not like you're gonna change anything important, right? We'll still be us, we'll still have the same history, we'll still have moved to Sunnydale with the intention of starting a family. The only difference is that the family will already be here. I'm not scared."

"That makes one of us." Doyle confessed, letting out a heavy sigh.

"I'm already crazy about him." Harry insisted. "I don't need a spell for that—we accept the terms. We want Connor to be ours."

"Then, I guess there's nothing more to say." Doyle declared, resting his hands on his knees and letting his eyes roam around the room, imagining it filled with Connor's toys. "Except… y'know, you should probably baby-proof those outlets."

Harriet laughed and gave Doyle a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she rose from the couch. "I'll write it down—that way I won't forget."

She left the room and Doyle stood up, pacing slowly toward the front picture window to take a brief glance outside to the streets of Sunnydale. The sound of Connor's happy gurgling brought him back around to see Angel reenter the room with Connor in his arms.

"Success?" Doyle wondered, seeing that Connor was once again in a happy-go-lucky state.

"Michael's a natural." Angel confirmed, looking like he wasn't quite ready to let Connor go just yet. Doyle guessed that Harriet and Michael were purposely steering clear of the living room for the moment to allow Angel a final farewell. And Doyle knew it was time he did the same.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Doyle crossed the room and gazed down at Connor's cherubic baby face. There was a good chance he'd see it again, but wouldn't recognize it. For this plan to work, it wasn't just Harriet and Michael whose memories had to be altered. "Take care, li'l guy. And just remember… U2 is the greatest band on Earth. Don't let anyone tell ya any different." He smiled at the child and leaned over to plant a kiss on the top of his forehead. He then stepped back and gave Angel a respectful nod. "I'll be outside, man. Take all the time ya need."

With that, Doyle turned away from the vampire and his child, shuffling toward the front door and exiting the charming little house. There was no point in saying goodbye to them; they wouldn't remember it anyway. Nor would Doyle. It was better just to give Angel his last few moments and then pull off the Band-Aid, as they say…

Crossing the plush green lawn, Doyle trotted across the street to where Cordelia and her friend, Willow, waited patiently beside the parked rental car. Cordelia was purposely keeping her eyes averted from the front window of Harry and Michael's house, avoiding the final heartbreaking tableau of father and son, saying their last goodbye.

"Angel just needs another minute." Doyle explained unnecessarily, hoisting a thumb over his shoulder at the house behind him.

Willow's eyes were wide and sympathetic as she nodded back at him. "No problem. I don't have anywhere to be... which sounds pretty pathetic, I know, but I-I have things to do in the morning. A-and most nights we do the whole demon-slaying thing. But not good-demon-slaying, only evil-demon-slaying. And maybe I'll just be shutting up now."

"She babbles when she's nervous." Cordelia explained, leaning her weight against the side of the car. Turning to face Willow, she arched a questioning brow. "You're not nervous about the spell, are you? I thought you'd gotten really good at this witchcraft stuff. If there's a chance you're gonna turn our brains to Swiss cheese, I think we need to reconsider."

"Oh. No." Willow assured her hastily, waving a hand in the air dismissively. "No Swiss cheese. Not even Gouda. These aren't spell-related nerves—they're just regular old Sunnydale nerves."

"So… you're sure? The only thing we'll forget is that Connor is here, right?" Cordelia clarified. "We'll still remember important stuff like our names and social security numbers and my birthday?"

"Oh, yeah. I'm totally sure." Willow confirmed. "You'll remember that Angel had a baby—which, weird, by the way—and, um, you'll remember everything that happened right up until the point you decided to hide him here. That's when everything will get all fuzzy. B-but you shouldn't have to worry or anything, you'll know he's okay. It'll be like… instinctual."

"Angel wants to remember." Doyle reminded her, making sure the redhead would respect Angel's wishes, as ill advised as they were. "Just him, no one else—the less people who know what really happened, the better."

"Of course." Willow agreed, holding her hand up in a pledge. "Even I won't remember after tonight. Promise."

Willow's eyes darted upward to the house, signaling movement. Doyle turned to see that Angel had come out the front door and was skulking down the front path, headed in their direction. Through the large front window of the house, Doyle could see Harriet and Michael standing together, fawning over the newest member of their family. He couldn't recall ever seeing Harriet as happy as she looked right then and there, and even though he was breaking his best friend's heart, he found some comfort in finally doing right by his ex-wife.

"Go ahead." Angel grunted, as he came to stand beside Willow, Cordelia and Doyle, all four of them turned to gaze up at the house as Willow nodded, raised her arms and began chanting, bringing a swirl of colorful lights out of thin air.

Doyle couldn't understand a word the witch said, but he felt the power course through her as she focused her energy on the idyllic little house before them, and the perfect little family inside. Her eyes went black as night and an unnatural wind blew around her as the magic flowed, hitting its target—hitting _all_ its targets, near and far.

And just like that it was over. A blanket of peace fell over the perfectly suburban street, and Willow lowered her arms. "It's done."

"It didn't work." Cordelia responded, folding her arms over her body and tapping her foot impatiently. "I still remember everything."

"It worked." Willow said with a half-grin. "It's not like 'whammo! everything's different.' But you're memory's already starting to fade and before the night's over all this will be but a distant memory."

"Ah… dontcha mean _no_ memory, love?" Doyle asked quizzically.

"Well, yeah. The distant memory thing is just a figure of speech." She replied with a shrug. "Geez, why do some people have to be so literal?"

* * *

"Are you ready for the crown jewel of the grand Sunnydale tour?" Cordelia wondered, hovering outside the nondescript door. The slight thumping of bass could be felt in the air, but somehow no actual sound escaped the dense brick walls that surrounded the garbage-filled alley.

"I dunno, Princess. Not sure anything can top the crispy fried remains of the ol' high school." Doyle remarked. "Or the countless cemeteries we passed on the way over here—y'think that'd tip folks off to the nature o' the place, yeah?"

"This place serves beer!" She said brightly, swinging open the door and allowing the muted bass to morph into a blaring rock song, compliments of a live band.

Doyle grinned as he entered the door to the infamous Bronze and took in the place. It wasn't anything terribly special as far as clubs went; but considering its proximity to the mouth of Hell, it did have a unique sort of energy to it, unlike any other Doyle had experienced in the big city.

The crowd was lively and comprised of a variety of age-groups that ranged from teens to young twenty-somethings. Doyle felt like the oldest person in the room, which made him wonder how Angel spent so much time in this place. Then again, Angel was used to being the oldest person in any room, so maybe it didn't faze him. There was also the possibility that Doyle wasn't actually the oldest person in the room, considering the population of vampires in this fair town.

"So, what do you think?" Cordelia beamed, gesturing to the multitude of young people grinding on the dance floor. "Did I do it justice?"

"It's… loud." He replied with a tentative smile, wiggling a finger in his ear.

"That's the beauty of it." Cordelia agreed, taking in the sight of her old haunt, with a glint of nostalgia in her eyes. "Dating in high school was torturous enough, imagine if I had to actually _hear_ the other person speak?"

Her wry comment caused Doyle to chuckle, although he didn't doubt the truth of it—for all parties. "Wanna drink?" He asked, threading through the crowd as he gravitated toward the bar.

"Do we have time?" She wondered, grabbing his wrist and twisting his watch in her direction to check the time. "You'll have to do all the driving after sunrise—Angel will burst into flames and I need my beauty sleep."

"Ah… maybe I'll stick with caffeine, just to be on the safe side." Doyle thought out loud as the bartender came over. "An Irish coffee for me, and for the lady…?"

"A regular coffee. Hold the Irish." She responded. "I've already got plenty of that in my life."

Doyle frowned, as she stuck her tongue out teasingly. They both turned to casually people-watch as they waited for their drinks. Their backs were pressed to the bar and their eyes darted from the band on the stage to the dancers on the dance-floor and then over to the cluster of boys around the pool table.

"See anyone y'know?" Doyle inquired, keeping his eyes peeled for a certain petite blonde slayer or red-haired witch; the only two Sunnydale residents he knew by sight.

"Thankfully, no." Cordelia responded. "I'm still trying to figure out whose brilliant idea it was to come on this little trip down Hellmouth lane." She turned to Doyle, narrowing her eyes with curiosity. "Isn't it weird that we both can't remember?"

"We came with Angel." Doyle deflected—his gut instincts told him not to dig any deeper than that. "He couldn't make the trip in one night without us."

"And just what is Monsieur de Broody doing this evening, anyway?" Cordelia asked sarcastically. "Lemme guess, begins with a B, ends with an 'uffy.'"

"He's not seeing Buffy." Doyle said matter-of-factly. "In fact, he made it pretty clear that if we bump into the slayer, we shouldn't let on that he's here with us."

"She just _loves_ when he skulks around Sunnydale without telling her." Cordelia retorted.

The bartender returned, placing each of their hot drinks down on the bar. Doyle pulled out his wallet and paid, and then lifted his mug, taking a test sip. "Mmmm, not bad. A'right, love… you've sold me on The Bronze. It's definitely my favorite place in town."

She rolled her eyes as he sipped from his half-caffeinated, half-alcoholic beverage, and gestured for him to follow her to one of the empty couches that faced the dance-floor. She sat down crossing one leg over the other and placed her oversized mug on the small table in front of her. He followed, settling onto the cushion beside her.

"Spike." She said with an inquisitive arch of her brow.

"What? He's here?" Doyle asked, nearly doing a spit-take; he spilled some of the hot liquid on his shirt as his head whipped around, looking for the familiar platinum head. "Where?"

Cordelia looked amused by his clumsy maneuver, and she smoothly handed him a napkin. "No, I mean. Maybe he's the reason Angel came to Sunnydale—put an end to that threat, once and for all."

"I doubt it." Doyle answered as he placed down his mug and used the napkin to soak up the stain on his shirt. "He's still got that, ah… chip. In his head."

"Right." Cordelia agreed, settling deeper into the cushions and turning to gaze out at the crowd.

"Why don't ya call your friend Willow? See if she and her girlfriend wanna meet up with us?" Doyle asked, giving up on the coffee stain and tossing the wad of wet napkin aside.

"Sorry, Doyle, hate to burst your bubble, but you won't be meeting any sexy lesbian witches tonight. Willow and Tara broke up." Cordelia answered, her eyes scanning the numerous faces in the room, wondering when the population of Sunnydale had become strangers to her. "But, according to Willow they're back on speaking terms, so maybe you'll get lucky next time."

Doyle chuckled guiltily, taking a more careful sip of his drink before placing it back down and cautiously asking his next question. "And, ah… what about your mom?"

"Oh, don't worry. She would never come here." Cordelia replied succinctly.

"So…" Doyle continued haltingly. "Ya didn't call her? Tell 'er we were around?"

"Why would I do that?!" Cordelia asked, aghast at the suggestion.

She eyeballed him as if he'd grown a second head, and he shrugged, unsure of what kind of answer to give her aside from the obvious. "I dunno, I thought…" He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe you would've wanted 'er to meet me. Since we're here and all. It's sorta customary in long-term relationships to y'know…"

Cordelia's head tilted toward him, and her eyes softened. It was clear that she thought his admission was endearing, but also completely off the mark. "Doyle, it's not that I don't want her to meet you," she said sweetly, sliding her hand across the cushions, so it could rest on his thigh. "It's that I don't want _you_ to meet _her_. She'll say awful things to both of us. Seriously—if you think Angelus can sink a ship, you have no idea what my mother is capable of."

"I don't believe that, darlin'." Doyle countered, flashing his dimple as he smiled encouragingly. "She couldn't put so much as a dent in us. Not anymore—not after everything we've been through."

"She could dent me." Cordelia admitted in a smaller voice than he was used to hearing; it was barely audible over the music, but he could still read her loud and clear.

"Maybe some other time then." Doyle agreed, letting her off the hook and patting her hand for good measure.

She sucked in a deep breath, shaking off the specter of her mother. "Well… if you're so desperate to meet more of Sunnydale's finest, I could give Xander a call. I'm sure he has no social life to speak of these days… not since he left his fiancée at the altar."

"He… what?" Doyle choked, his eyes going wide. "Wasn't he engaged to a _vengeance_ _demon_?!"

"Ex-vengeance demon." Cordelia said nonchalantly, lifting her coffee mug and taking a generous sip.

Doyle's stomach flipped over and he looked down at his Irish coffee as if it was a mug of battery acid. _Gulp_. "Ah… I think I've had my fill of the good people o' Sunnydale. What's say we find Angel and hit the road?"

* * *

 **A/N - I withheld this chapter until today so I could add a little acknowledgment. Hard to believe it's been 15 years since Glenn Quinn left this world. Thank you, dear readers, for helping me keep his legacy alive by reading these stories and cherishing the character that he created so long ago. You are still missed, Glenn. Each and every day.**


	52. A New World

**52\. A New World**

Doyle made his way down the hallway, toward the nondescript apartment door, which seemed to beckon and repel him at the same time. He probably shouldn't be there—he knew that. Angel surely wouldn't want him there; Cordelia probably wouldn't want him there either, at least, not without her. But, this visit was long overdue. Doyle had put it off long enough.

It had been weeks since Wesley was released from the hospital; Doyle had missed the "polite" window for well wishes. Mostly because he was unable to face the other man's dire condition and know that he'd contributed to it in some way, nor did he think himself capable of actual _well_ _wishes_ under the circumstances.

This visit wasn't about politeness. It was about finally moving on, the way Cordelia kept insisting they ought to. In order to do that, Doyle had to face the man. He had to take responsibility for the part he'd played in Wesley's downfall, and in turn, give Wesley the chance for penance and peace. It was the right thing to do.

Wesley's apartment door opened before Doyle had gotten close enough to knock. But, what really surprised him was the person coming out of that door.

Lilah Morgan. Calm and collected as she ever was, smirking at Doyle's perplexed face as she strutted past him on her way to the elevator. Doyle was frozen in place, his head involuntarily craning so that he could keep an eye on his mortal enemy until she disappeared.

The sound of a throat clearing caused Doyle to forget Lilah and turn toward the man standing in his open doorway wearing a most unwelcoming expression.

If looks could kill, this one would have at least maimed. Doyle didn't let it deter him, though; he continued forward until he stood directly in front of Wesley, knowing his own face was a mirror of hostility, with a whopping side of judgmental.

"Can't say I approve of your choice o' friends these days, bud." Doyle pointed at the direction of the elevator, which had just swallowed Ms. Morgan up.

"I have no friends." Wesley deadpanned, looking as rough as his voice sounded. A bandage was still secured over the side of his throat; a month's worth of stubble had collected on his jaw. "Fred already brought over all my things. Why are you here?"

It was a good question. One Doyle was already asking himself. This had seemed like the right thing to do, but now it felt terribly wrong instead. He shifted his weight, letting his eyes wander into the recesses of Wesley's apartment, where he was clearly not invited. "I wanted to see how you were, ah…" He pointed to his own throat uneasily.

Wesley looked insulted, as if Doyle's concern was further injury to his person. "I'll live." He said bitterly. "Your conscience is clear. Now, if you don't mind—I'd really rather you leave. We have nothing to say to each other."

He moved to shut the door in Doyle's face, but Doyle stepped into the doorframe, propping a foot against the door to keep it from shutting, and resting his hand in the doorjamb. "What if I have something to say, huh?" He countered. " _This_ —what happened to ya—it wasn't my fault."

"No?" Wesley quietly challenged.

"No." Doyle answered emphatically. "And ya shouldn't be blaming Angel or Cordy or any o' the others, either. None o' this is on them."

"I see." Wesley said impassively. "Well, rest assured, Doyle, I blame no one but myself… after all, the truth was staring me in the face for years. And I was simply too blind to see it."

"Blind to what exactly?" Doyle questioned, sensing the shift in Wesley's tone—the icicles that had formed in the doorway where they stood.

"Your agenda." Wesley bit back, letting the words lash out and recoil, like the weapon they were meant to be. "One that never included me."

"You should be real careful what ya go accusing me of, Wes." Doyle replied dangerously, letting himself be baited by Wesley's ire. "My purpose in coming here was to extend an olive branch, but if ya keep talking like that, not sure I want ya to take it."

"You knew!" Wesley growled, finally unleashing his pent up anger. "You've known what would happen since the first day I met you—and you said _nothing_!"

"I warned you!" Doyle shouted back, also giving into his temper and poking his finger in Wesley's direction. "I told ya the prophecy was a fake!"

"After three years of looking me in the eye and never uttering a single word!" Wesley argued accusingly. "Not to mention the countless other brushes with death we faced—all of which, you had complete knowledge!"

"I didn't know everything. That's not how it works!" Doyle retorted. "But you're right, I knew enough. I knew what needed to be done, and I set out to do it. Part o' that meant keeping you—and everyone else—on a need to know basis."

"This was something I needed to know!" Wesley snapped, gesturing to the thick bandage fastened to his neck. "You know what I think, Doyle? You like having the power to pick and choose your own ideal version of the future. It doesn't matter who else gets hurt along the way as long as you live happily ever after with Angel and Cordelia. The rest of us are expendable."

"That's a lie, bud." Doyle insisted, taking some of the hostility out of his voice. Reminding himself that despite Wesley's recent actions, he wasn't the enemy. "You were my friend. I tried to protect you while I was protecting Connor. Same as I did for Angel, Cordy, Gunn and Fred…"

Wesley visibly winced at the mention of Fred's name. His physical wounds having done nothing to dull his still aching heart.

"Things changed, man—mostly for good, but not all." Doyle said calmly, acknowledging Wesley's suffering. "You may feel like you've gotten a bad edit here, but it's nothing compared to what coulda been. See, in that other timeline, ya not only cost Angel his son, you also started a chain reaction that led directly to the end o' days."

"I started it?" Wesley asked in horrified disbelief. "You're implying... I was part of the Tro-Clon?"

Doyle paused, choosing his words carefully. "As smart as you are, Wes, ya hadn't figured that part out?"

Wesley's mask of horror was frozen in place as he started to absorb the ramifications of what Doyle was telling him. Somehow, even after everything that had happened, he'd cast himself as the hero. Now he was starting to see just how untrue that was.

"Looks like ya believe me now," Doyle noticed. "Or d'ya needa go check with Sahjhan?

"Tell me." Wesley demanded gruffly, his eyes turned away as he braced himself for more of the awful truth. "I need to know."

"Connor's life was ruined." Doyle obliged, easily recalling the nightmare that had been haunting him for years. "The boy was permanently scarred—and I'm not talking a few flesh wounds. He grew up in the darkest of dark places, calling Angel's mortal enemy 'father.' When he came back to this world, he was known as 'the Destroyer,' which was an appropriate nickname seeing as how he destroyed everything we built here and then some. Angel basically sold his soul to the devil to try and make things right; except things were never right, 'cause ya don't make a deal like that and come back from it, yeah?" The whole sordid tale tumbled freely from Doyle's lips, and he could see the weight of his words landing heavily upon Wesley's drooping shoulders. "Things were so screwed up that the Powers felt they hadda get involved, retroactively. That's where I came in. So, I guess, in a twisted way, I owe ya my life."

Wesley backpedaled, all the wind having been taken out of his sails. All the fight drained out of his body. He looked sick and frail. He looked like a man who had lost everything. Doyle, too, stepped back, remaining framed in the doorway, but no longer forcibly keeping the door open.

It hadn't been his intention to kick the man while he was down, but maybe it needed to be said. Maybe Wesley needed to understand the true scope of what he'd almost been responsible for.

"Look, Wes… I know you're a good man who made a mistake, you couldn't possibly have known the consequences of your actions; that's why I came here tonight." Doyle spoke again, gentler now. Seeing how badly he had defeated the already broken man. "I can try and bring ya back into the fold—can't be as boss. They won't go for that. But, as a colleague…" He twisted his hand back and forth to indicate that it could go either way. "It'll take some time, but—"

"No." Wesley interrupted sharply, taking Doyle by surprise. "I won't be groveling for my place amongst the puppets. I no longer wish to be a pawn in this game. Goodbye, Doyle."

With that, he shoved the door closed, letting it slam in Doyle's stunned face.

There would be no penance or absolution. There would be no olive branches. There would be no making Angel Investigations whole.

There was only moving on and hoping that the new world was better than the one that came before.


	53. Benediction

**A/N- Sorry for the delay, dear readers. I wasn't trying to draw out these last couple of chapters on purpose. Life just took a turn and kept me from my diligent posting. The good (and bad?) news is that this is the penultimate chapter, so you won't have to wait much longer to get to the end. I plan to post it within the next few days and give you all the closure you deserve after following me on this ridiculously long journey once again. xx**

* * *

 **53\. Benediction**

Cordelia leaned over and nudged the dial of the stereo up a notch, and then tossed a grin over her shoulder at the individuals who were currently tearing up the "dance floor," aka the middle of her living room. The song was upbeat, with a thumping bass line that revealed who had rhythm and who didn't. And from what Cordelia could see, Gunn definitely had rhythm. Fred… well, at least she was graceful.

Then again, she looked like James Brown compared to the Groosalugg, who try as he might, didn't really get the concept of dancing—at least, not the way anyone on Earth would do it.

"Is that a popular dance in Pylea?" Cordelia asked Nixaleen skeptically. The lovely demoness stood on the fringes of the makeshift dance floor, exchanging shy smiles with Penny, who having shed his fedora and suit jacket, was currently in the center of the dancing crowd. Lorne, too, was strutting around like a demonic peacock, sipping from his traditional pink Sea Breeze as he moved in time with the music.

"It is the dance of joy, your majesty." Nixaleen answered politely, referring to the awkward Thriller-esque dance moves of her brother. "It is oft performed at celebratory feasts, such as this."

Cordelia watched as the Groosalugg's goofy antics sent poor Clover leaping off one of the living room armchairs and skittering away to hide in the bedroom. Fred giggled uncontrollably, burying her face in Gunn's chest as they danced together. Meanwhile, Angel, who was leaning quietly in the dining room archway, looked longingly after the cat, probably wishing he could make a similar getaway. Instead, he remained in place, continuing to watch his friends cavort around the room with an impassive expression.

"Not all of us our celebrating." Cordelia noted wistfully, wishing she could do something to lift Angel's veil of melancholy.

"If you would prefer the dance of valor, I would be most honored to oblige." Nixaleen continued ardently. "Or…" Her voice dropped and she moved a step closer to Cordelia, to keep their conversation confidential. "Perhaps, the dance of fertility would please your majesty. To ensure a fruitful com-shuck—."

"Joy is good!" Cordelia interrupted as quickly as her tongue would move. "I'm really feeling the joy."

Penny shimmied over at that moment, saving Cordelia from further discussion of her evening com-shuck plans. He hovered on the edge of the dance floor with a hand extended toward Nixaleen. "Hey, beautiful. Care to do me the pleasure?"

Nixaleen blushed profusely as she accepted Penny's invitation, allowing him to twirl her onto the dance floor with the others. The faux- gangster winked at Cordelia as he did so, making it clear that his perfect timing was perfect for a reason.

A moment later, Doyle appeared carrying an armful of beer bottles he'd retrieved from the kitchen; a few bottles even floated behind him, helped along by Dennis. Pausing briefly, he offered a bottle to Angel, which the vampire gratefully took. Doyle then proceeded across the lively living room and began sticking the glass bottles into the empty ice bucket at Cordelia's side.

"This was a great idea." He commented, as he took the remaining beer bottles from Dennis' invisible hands and arranged them in the ice bucket as well. "Been too long since we had ourselves a little shindig, yeah?"

"Doesn't this strike you as more of a hootenanny?" Cordelia suggested. She laughed and shook her head as she watched Penny dip Nixaleen rather dramatically. He was more than a full head shorter than the statuesque redhead, but he danced like a much bigger man. Every bit the dapper don he portended to be. "Yup, definitely a hootenanny."

"Are ya mocking me, Princess?" Doyle asked wryly. He finished with the beer bottles and turned to size up the small crowd.

"It's sort of an all-encompassing mockery." She teased in reply.

He accepted that, sidling up beside her and resting an arm around her shoulders as they jointly watched their friends make fools of themselves, to varying degrees. Penny and Nixaleen continued to stand out, as he insisted on showing off with fancy swing-era dance moves that worked surprisingly well with the modern dance beat.

The current song ended, sending the various dancers scattering to seek food, drink and fresh air. Cordelia turned back to the stereo, nudging the dial back down several notches as Penny approached the ice bucket to retrieve himself a beer. He twisted off the cap and held it up in cheers toward Doyle and Cordelia.

"Boy oh boy, do you guys know how to deliver, or what?" The demon said merrily, taking a swig from his bottle, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and tilting the mouth of his bottle in the pretty redhead's direction. "She's really something."

"Does this mean we're even?" Cordelia wondered. "We'll be in the red for the rest of this century if we start paying outside contractors _every time_ they save our behinds."

"I wouldn't worry, darlin'. Penny's a friend…" Doyle hedged.

"Um, yeah. And old _friends_ of yours usually send bigger friends to remove various appendages." Cordelia reminded him with a poke to his ribs.

"Awww, now that hurts." Penny replied, holding his hands over his heart in mock pain. "Do I really not look tough enough to remove the appendages myself?"

"Maybe a finger." Cordelia said glibly. "The nickname isn't helping. I mean, Penny? Doesn't exactly strike dread into the hearts of other demons. Now does it?"

"Neither does Felix." Penny explained with a shrug. "And Lucky was already taken."

"You're not lucky—you cheat." Cordelia pointed out.

A shriek of laughter from the opposite end of the room caused Cordelia's head to turn rapidly. There she saw Phantom Dennis playfully juggling a few of the hors d'oeuvres she'd set out on the coffee table, while Fred looked on in amusement and Gunn frowned at the strange spectacle.

"What did I tell him about playing with our food?" Cordelia grumbled. She was about to move away from Doyle and put a stop to Dennis' party tricks, when she felt the arm around her shoulder tighten very suddenly and then thicken as Doyle morphed into his Brachen form. "Doyle?" She muttered his name, as she reflexively reached out and held him, knowing what was about to happen.

And then it did happen. Doyle hunched forward, managing to stay on his feet thanks to his demon strength. His body was stable, stuck in place. His mind, however, had been transported miles away to a scene of gruesome violence.

Cordelia stayed focused on her grimacing demon boyfriend, barely noticing that the joyful climate of the party had ebbed away as the others slowly became aware of the situation. By the time Doyle's red demon eyes switched back to the palest blue Cordelia had ever seen, the room was quiet—Dennis had dropped his juggling act and killed the music. Angel had raced to Doyle's side, stabilizing him, even though he was plenty stable with Cordelia's help alone. Penny had backpedaled, not sure what to make of the bizarre scene, but knowing without a doubt that the party was over.

"What did you see?" Angel asked, keeping his voice low as he squeezed Doyle's shoulder. The vampire's eyes were filled with a strange sense of urgency—as if he desperately _needed_ to go out and save a soul that night.

"A bar." Doyle answered.

"Typical." Cordelia chided, and then smiled innocently as Doyle glowered at her. "Too easy. Go on."

"Place was crawling with vampires." Doyle continued grimly. "I saw, ah… it was Holtz's sidekick—the girl. Looked pretty rough. She was 'bout to be attacked."

There was a long beat as they all absorbed the mission, and realized just who the Powers wanted them to save that night. Doyle looked out at the sea of uncertain faces, looking to him for guidance, including that of his best friend, who looked most conflicted of all. "What d'ya say? Are ya game?"

"I'm game." Angel answered, patting Doyle's shoulder in confirmation. He then swiftly turned, snatching his coat off the back of a chair as he marched toward the front door with the rest of the gang rapidly falling into line behind him.

Ready to save another lost soul, no matter who that soul may be.

* * *

The bar was loud and full of unsuspecting Angelenos kicking back with an adult beverage of their choice. None of them knew the kind of danger that lurked within the crowd. None except, perhaps, the greasy-haired woman slouched at the bar. The one and same Doyle had seen in his vision.

Her name was Justine. They'd never been properly introduced, or introduced at all, for that matter. The name was probably something he'd gleaned from the vision. Truthfully, he'd never cared to know her name before; not even when he'd seen her at Holtz's side, ruddy faced, bloated from alcohol abuse, and bruised from an assailant's fist. Now he felt bad that he'd never paid her any mind—never once thought about the human beings who had been lured into joining Holtz's army. Each and every one of them was fueled by their own pain and loss—Justine was no exception. It still poured off her in waves, now more than ever. Because on top of whatever great loss she'd experienced in the past, she had a fresh one to occupy her thoughts.

"So, how do we know who's an actual vampire and who's just got a tragic fashion sense?" Cordelia wondered, speaking loud enough for both Angel and Doyle to hear her above the hum of the crowd. Gunn entered behind the three of them, with Fred at his side.

Doyle noticed a few odd looks being tossed in their direction, signaling that the final member of their rescue team had entered the club behind the others. In a city full of oddballs and weirdos, the Groosalugg still managed to stick out. Especially since he had chosen to wear his Pylean ensemble this particular evening.

A roar from across the room caused Doyle to snap to attention. Justine had just been yanked off her stool and flipped over the bar, compliments of the fang-bearing bartender. And he wasn't the only one with a set of teeth. No less than three other vampires had surrounded the stool Justine had so recently been slumped over.

"That helps!" Cordelia noted, procuring a stake out from under her short leather jacket and moving into action alongside the rest of the gang.

Angel, being the fastest and most agile, leapt quite nimbly over the bar and assisted Justine in fending off her most aggressive attacker. There was a crash as all three moving bodies disrupted the array of bottles shelved behind the bar. Doyle honed in on one of the other three vamp attackers, who were stunned to find their plans complicated by a fellow vampire, two half-demons, an ex-gang member, the baddest bitch to ever graduate from Sunnydale High and a Fred.

There was another deafening crash and a howl as something else got broken—this time it was the bartending vamp himself, and a shower of ash followed. There were screams as people rushed away from the all-out brawl that was now taking place at the front of the bar.

Fred stepped into Cordelia's former role ushering the innocent bystanders to safety in as orderly fashion as possible. Meanwhile, Cordelia was in the thick of the action, putting her many months of field training to good use. Doyle caught a glimpse of her every now and then as he dealt with his own opponent. She bobbed and weaved expertly as if she'd been a boxer in high school, rather than a cheerleader. And when the vampire she faced was stupid enough to underestimate her, he met the pointy end of her stake and was scattered across the beer-stained floor.

Gunn and Groo rounded out the group of fighters, taking on a few drunken humans who'd mistakenly decided to get in on the action. Some guys just couldn't resist—the key was, putting them down before they could get in the way of the real danger.

As Doyle wrestled with a rather scrappy vampire adversary, he spotted Cordelia rushing to his aid, her stake at the ready once again. She nodded at Doyle, signaling that she was ready for whatever he threw her way. Which is why he did exactly that—morphing into his spikes, he used his demon strength to toss his vampire opponent directly toward his waiting girlfriend. The vampire landed on Cordelia's outstretched stake and he too joined the dust club.

Doyle and Cordelia grinned at each other, proud of their effortless teamwork. Turning, they both assessed the rest of the situation to see where they were needed next. Thankfully, the drunken brawlers had taken enough licks to call it a night. But, as the first wave of vampires waned, a second wave revealed themselves, strong-arming their way through the thinned out crowd.

The AI team wasn't even close to being done with this fight. Doyle tilted his head, resigned to stay in spike-mode so he could do maximum damage. And Cordelia circled around so she could stand back to back with Doyle, her stake still held at the ready.

"Go!" Angel's voice cut through the din of the battle. It was directed at Justine, who looked shaken… but not stirred. She glowered at Angel, giving only the most cursory of glances at the others, and then stumbled toward the rear exit of the club, fleeing from the gang of vampires who had been targeting her, specifically.

The fight continued, and Doyle was thankful that the Angel Investigations team was bolstered by the Groosalugg's extra muscle. It was almost as if they weren't a man short… _almost_.

As if thinking of their missing teammate suddenly made him appear, Doyle spotted a familiar bespectacled face in the crowded balcony overhead. Despite the distance and the low light, Doyle knew he wasn't seeing things—it was definitely Wesley watching the ruckus with reserved curiosity.

Doyle's eyes narrowed as he considered the odds of this being a mere coincidence. And then as another familiar face appeared out of the shadows, Doyle stopped considering.

Lilah Morgan. Again. At Wesley's side as if she belonged there.

She didn't belong there—or, rather, _he_ didn't belong there with her. It was unnatural and downright disturbing. And yet, Wesley's declaration that he had no friends resonated in Doyle's mind.

The enemy of my former friends could be a… could be a _what_?

Doyle had been staring long enough that he wasn't terribly surprised when he finally caught Wesley's direct eye contact. The fight was petering off around him, and it was no longer necessary for him to focus on anything other than the man he wished he could still call 'friend.' They held each other's gaze for a long moment; expressions unchanging. Doyle silently bid for Wesley to come down and join his former teammates in battle. That would go a long way to show that they were all still on the same side—the side of _good_.

It would have been so easy. It would have meant so much. But, it's not what Wesley chose to do.

Instead, his gaze turned colder the longer he focused it in Doyle's direction. And then, finally…

Wesley turned and walked away, disappearing from sight. Never reappearing on the floor below. His former teammates were left to their own fate, while he went off to face a new one.

A fate that apparently included Lilah Morgan.

* * *

Doyle poured the amber liquid generously into the two glasses set before him. They were balanced on the ledge at the west side of the Hyperion rooftop with an array of city lights as backdrop.

"Bottom's up." He said to Angel, as he passed the vampire one of the glasses.

Angel took the drink and tipped it toward the half-demon at his side before readily emptying the contents. Doyle did the same, enjoying the warmth that surged down his chest, compliments of the whiskey.

The two demons stood in silence, leaving the glasses empty for now and watching the cars migrate across the landscape below.

"I'm not saying I wanna go..." Doyle offered, finally breaking the dense silence between them. He continued to stare straight ahead, his fingers tapping restlessly on the ledge.

"Yes, you do." Angel's posture was nearly identical as he answered his friend matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, alright… maybe I do." Doyle agreed, shifting his position to lean on his left elbow as he faced Angel directly. "Thing is, I'm not lying when I say Cordy might be in danger—that's the God's honest truth, man. And while a lot's changed and things are different now… well, there's just some risks not worth taking, yeah?"

"You don't have to justify anything, Doyle." Angel quietly assured his friend, turning his own head slightly. "You should go whether something's after Cordy or not. You deserve it."

"I just hate leaving ya all alone here." Doyle admitted with a shrug. "Especially now..."

The once-bustling Hyperion Hotel—full of life, old and new—was practically a ghost town nowadays.

Penny and Nixaleen had absconded on a lover's getaway. Although, Doyle had a sneaking suspicion they wouldn't get much farther than Las Vegas, which is where they'd so generously offered to drop Lorne on the first stop of his nationwide tour. Sin City was as good a place as any for the demon with the voice of an angel, and Lorne was eager to shed the shackles of his decimated karaoke bar and take his show on the road.

Although, Fred still lived in the hotel, and arguably, Gunn lived there with her, the two of them were deep in the honeymoon phase of their relationship. That meant just about every night was date night. Not that they weren't polite enough to invite the remaining occupants of the hotel along with them, but Angel wasn't all that into movies that didn't star Charlton Heston. Nor was he a fan of miniature golf or picnics in the park, for that matter.

However, the biggest empty hole was the one left by the smallest body.

Doyle couldn't remember exactly when it had happened, or even why—the details had faded by now—but, he knew Connor was never coming back. And he knew that was for the best. He also knew that Angel spent most days, and nights… and dusks, and dawns and twilights, missing his son something awful.

He probably always would. How could he not?

"I won't be alone." Angel spoke in the same even tone. "Fred and Gunn are here to help with the business." Angel paused, a slight furrow appearing over his brow. "And there's the Groosalugg. He's, um… a really good fighter."

Doyle chuckled, picking up on the unspoken subtext. "Don't worry. He won't be staying too much longer. Penny'll be back for him—plans to put his strengths to good use in the, ah… enforcement business."

"Oh, thank goodness." Angel replied, letting out a melodramatic sigh of relief. "I mean, he might be a little _too_ good. And it's not like you guys aren't coming back—you are coming back, right?"

"Couldn't keep us away if ya tried." Doyle promised, finally lifting the bottle to refill the empty glasses. "The Powers would have my head if we didn't. Speaking of, what d'ya think the cell reception is like on those cruise ships?"

Angel reached over to take one of the newly filled glasses. "I wouldn't worry about it."

"Easy for you to say." Doyle retorted, pausing with his glass raised half way to his mouth. "I doubt the Higher Powers are as gracious about granting vacation time as you are, bud."

"I'm feeling optimistic." Angel answered, lifting his own glass rather nonchalantly.

Now it was Doyle's turn to sport the furrowed brow look as he noted his friend's coy behavior. "When I get back, I'd better not find I have a toad for a best friend, yeah?"

Angel merely smiled as he knocked back the drink, placed the empty glass down beside Doyle's bottle and turned away to disappear into the night. Doyle stood alone, full glass still in hand, not knowing whether he should be concerned or flattered that Angel might be risking life and limb to ensure that his best friend finally got to take Cordelia on a proper vacation.

"Thinkin' I'd better buy a terrarium just in case." He joked to the empty air, before polishing off his own drink, collecting his bottle and heading off in search of the woman he was about to sweep off her feet.


	54. Tomorrow

**54\. Tomorrow**

The brisk ocean breeze kissed Cordelia's bare shoulders, causing her skin to break out into goose flesh. She was in desperate need of a sweater, but didn't want to tear herself away from the wide variety of colors painted across the sky overhead. Forget the sweater, what she really needed was a warm pair of arms wrapped around her… and luckily, those arms presented themselves before she caved into the need for more clothing.

"Mmmm, now _that's_ a view." Doyle observed, settling into place behind her and rapidly enveloping her in his cozy embrace.

He was _so_ much better than a sweater.

"The sunset is way more impressive from the middle of the Atlantic." Cordelia admired the seemingly endless ocean surrounding them, which scattered the spectacular glow of the setting sun in all directions.

"Not the view I was referring to, love." Doyle clarified with a flirtatious grin and a generous flash of dimple. She laughed heartily as she felt his warm lips graze the side of her neck, erasing any possibility of a chill. In fact, the temperature rose considerably as the blood increased its flow through her veins.

They were standing on the port bow of the _Royal Princess_ , their new home away from home for the next several weeks. Rest, relaxation and romance was the entire agenda. Cordelia had seen her fair share of cruise ships throughout her young life, but this one was already her favorite. Most notably for the company she was keeping whilst aboard.

She sighed with contentment, settling deeper into Doyle's embrace as the massive boat rocked gently over the pleasant waves. "I can't believe we finally made it on our cruise."

"And I'm not even Matthew McConaughey." He teased in reply, reminding her of the early days, in which she'd tried to dismiss his feelings as nothing but a harmless flirtation. How far they'd come since then.

"Well… as you will recall, that stipulation specifically applied to a cruise to the _Bahamas_." She explained with a playful smile. "Lucky for you, this ship's itinerary is purely European."

"I've never felt luckier." Doyle assured her, giving her waist a tender squeeze. "Although, I might feel differently after you've finished shopping your way through London and Paris."

"Maxing out my credit card along the Champs Elysees has always been a dream of mine." She agreed, her fingers lightly brushing across his knuckles, feeling the cold metal of his Claddagh Ring as she brushed past his middle finger. "I bet you're pretty excited about our final stop, huh?"

"Oh… yeah?" Doyle asked with an air of faux-cluelessness. She could feel his body shift behind her as he peeked over her shoulder to gauge her facial expression. They both knew that he knew _exactly_ where their final port of destination was, which was undoubtedly why he'd chosen this particular ship.

"I can only assume it means what I think it means." She stated matter-of-factly, humoring his little game of coyness. "That you have a very specific destination in mind…"

"Alright, ya got me, Princess." He admitted with a lighthearted chuckle. "While in Dublin we'll be stopping at me favorite pub. You've never tasted Guinness 'til you've been to Temple Bar."

Cordelia rolled her eyes and gave him a light nudge of objection with her elbow, before turning herself around in his arms so she could face him directly. "Doyle." She scolded him good-humoredly. "Be honest. Are you taking me to meet your mother?"

She watched as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and then he licked his lips nervously as he considered the answer she wanted to hear. She found it endearing that he was nervous to admit to his rather benign master plan.

"Ah… _ahem_." His shimmering green eyes darted to and fro, catching the light of the setting sun and causing them to change to a deep blue. "Unless ya strongly object." He finally admitted, his shoulders slumping with an air of defeat.

"I certainly wouldn't classify that as restful, relaxing or romantic." She pointed out, letting him squirm for an added beat. "But it is definitely the sweetest thing you could've done… I'd love to meet her." His face lit up as he registered her words, and she turned on the high beams, smiling from ear to ear. "I also expect a full tour of where you grew up. Oh, and I bet your mom has lots of embarrassing pictures of you as a little kid!"

Doyle's mouth hung open and his brow furrowed as second thoughts undoubtedly floated through his mind.

"There is one little problem though..." Cordelia mentioned, as she considered all the bikini-tops and low-cut dresses she'd packed for Doyle's benefit. "My vacation wardrobe isn't exactly mom-friendly."

By now, Doyle's brows had come unfurrowed and extended upward with appreciation. "I'm sure whatever ya packed will be fine. Ma's not exactly the judgmental type, for, ah… obvious reasons." He said, subtly referencing his mother's affair with a demon that had resulted in Doyle's birth. "She's gonna love ya."

"Of course, she's gonna love me!" Cordelia agreed wholeheartedly. "I'm a mother's dream come true… But, maybe I'll put something wholesome on the shopping list, just to be safe."

He chuckled, pulling her closer and nuzzling his lips beneath her ear. "You'll still wear all the other stuff 'fore we get to Ireland, yeah?"

"Maybe, maybe not." Cordelia answered coyly. "I was thinking a good portion of the trip would be clothing-optional."

Her words caused an even bigger grin to break out across Doyle's face. "I do love the way y'think." He mumbled, as he moved to capture her lips.

"That's the way _you_ think." She clarified, keeping her smiling mouth a breath away, teasing him slightly. "And you've definitely rubbed off on me."

Reaching up and looping her arms around his neck, she pulled him toward her, kissing him passionately as they sailed into tomorrow.

* * *

Lilah Morgan sat at the head of the long table, her hands folded placidly on the surface in front of her. The slightest trace of a self-assured smile teased at the corners of her mouth as she pictured the myriad of arrogant faces waiting outside the conference room door, expecting her to fall on her face, or her sword.

Soon they'd know how wrong they were. Soon, she'd be the one holding the sword, while everyone around her fell upon it.

Linwood sat at the other end of the table, scanning the file Lilah had slid in his direction. A slight wrinkle was evident over his brow as he got to the bottom of the page and flipped the cover shut. "This is a _curious_ report." He mused, tapping his fingers lightly on the well-polished tabletop. "Very curious indeed."

"I thought it would be of interest." Lilah said, letting her smug smile fall into place.

"It almost makes up for that debacle with the baby." Linwood remarked, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes for a moment of contemplation.

"Almost?" Lilah scoffed, sitting up a little straighter. "This is a game changer. Take this to the Senior Partners and there'll be a lot more than the usual bonus in our Christmas stockings this year _._ "

The white haired man tilted his head with consideration, but still didn't look as impressed as he should be, which vexed Lilah to no end. He must have skimmed right past the important parts—how could she hope to shine when her superior was nothing but a blathering fool!

"What about the Granok demon?" Linwood inquired.

"Sahjhan." Lilah supplied.

"Is he out of the picture?"

Lilah clung to her composure with every shred of her being, maintaining her careful smile. "He's been… contained. For the time being."

Linwood nodded impassively, his fingers tracing a lazy pattern across the file cover. They paused when they reached the center and he tapped it questioningly. "You think he's right? About this… _half-breed_ being more than just a glorified walke-talkie?"

"I do, sir." Lilah assured her boss. "Our own files seem to corroborate Sahjhan's claims. And my current source—"

"Who?" Linwood demanded.

"I'm not at liberty to say." Lilah smarmed. Now it was Linwood's turn to squirm and Lilah's to glorify in the luck she'd had by being in the right place at the right time. Not only had Sahjhan identified Angel's unimpressive Irish sidekick as a man with the power to alter the timeline, but Wesley—poor, bitter, Wesley—had indicated that his former teammate could do so much more than that. Simply by breathing.

And now, thanks to Lilah, Wolfram & Hart had a chance to use that information to their advantage. If this didn't earn her a promotion, nothing would.

"Hmmph." Linwood frowned at her refusal, but said nothing more. What could he say? She had him at her mercy and they both knew it. She'd keenly written the report to get herself noticed, but omitted just enough of the details to make her ongoing involvement in the case a necessity. He slowly swiveled his chair away from her, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the wall. "You know… you should watch yourself, Lilah. The senior partners won't take kindly to the implication that they didn't see this coming. In fact, there's been talk about a timeline blip for years."

"They didn't know the _blip_ was a 'he.'" She insisted, her confidence not waning in the slightest. She _would_ get her due for this discovery.

"A fairly unremarkable one at that." Linwood answered.

"Unremarkable?" Lilah repeated incredulously. "I'm pretty sure he just stopped the Tro-Clon. That sounds just a little remarkable to me… let me spearhead the disposal operation—"

"Too little, too late." Linwood argued with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The damage is done. We kill the best friend now, we lose our shot at the vampire forever—Angel's still the endgame."

Lilah fought to keep the pained expression from showing on her face. "With all due respect, sir, there may not be an endgame." She said tightly. "The fate of the world has been permanently altered—Doyle may have already _saved_ it."

"Perish the thought." Linwood said with a beleaguered sigh. He pushed his fist into the tabletop and stood, pushing back his chair and letting it roll until it bounced off the wall behind him. "There's supposed to be an apocalypse, and by George, there _will_ be. The Senior Partners will see to that."

"I don't doubt it." Lilah placated him, her phony grin extending a littler farther. "But, if they want it to arrive on its original schedule, they _will_ need my help."

 **THE END**

* * *

 **A/N - Well, that's all for now, folks. THANK YOU SO SO MUCH for sticking with me for yet another Doyle-centric season of Angel. If it** **wasn't for all the kind words and insightful criticisms and enthusiasm, et al. I don't know that I would have stayed motivated enough to finish this undertaking. It's because of you wonderful and devoted readers that I desperately want to finish the entire series! BUT, in the interest of full disclosure, it's probably going to be a while before I can get into seasons 4 and 5. I guess you could say I'm going on hiatus, but I do hope to return with more scintillating tales of Doyle, Cordy, Angel and the whole gang.**

 **Wishing you all the best during this holiday season and a very happy New Year ahead! xo**


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